


Les apparence trompeuses

by Every_Sourwolfs_Dream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Apartment, Aramis Whump, Architect!D'artagnan, BFFs, Banter, Bars, Comfort/Angst, Cupcakes, Dating, Dinner, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feud - Freeform, Fist Fights, Florists, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lawyer!Aramis, Legal battles, M/M, Rochefort is a Dick, Sober Athos, Student!Porthos, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transgender d'Artagnan, artist!Athos, house visit, marvel/dc debate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:52:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Every_Sourwolfs_Dream/pseuds/Every_Sourwolfs_Dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'artagnan doesn't know what he's looking for when he moves to Paris, honestly, he's kind of making things up as he goes along. Little does he expect three friends to enter his life and turn it upside down as a vicious old-world family feud comes back to haunt Athos and those he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before I ever met you

**Author's Note:**

> Hello guys!  
> So, this is a tad different to the things I've done before and has been adapted a lot since I first began it several yeas ago. Yes, D'artagnan is trans. Not because I believe it to be canonical, but I've wanted to read something like this for ages but haven't been able to find it. So I figured, hey ho, why not write it myself. I decided to create a story were being trans isn't the primary focus, but obviously it's always going to be there, as well as the dysphoria.  
> So yes... let me know what you think!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * warning: very vague mention of transphobic bullying

D'artagnan had back ache by the time he gave up and went to sit at the bar, choosing a stool furthest away from the door. He hated being short. Well, not really, he supposed. He enjoyed being the smaller man, or alternatively being approached by smaller women. Not that he'd never been approached by a taller woman, it was just... less common. Somehow he believed his life would be greater if he was 5ft 6 even, instead of 5ft 3. Of course that's ridiculous though, still incessantly pondering on it was driving him crazy. D'artagnan was so in depth with his worrying, that he was completely oblivious to the stranger who slid somewhat gracefully on to the red bar stool next to him.  
\------------  
He was completely oblivious, thank fuck, Athos thought. Yes, he thought this lonely character was gorgeous.  Yes, he had decided to approach (rather like a cautious animal). Yes, he had no formulated plan of how to use words. (What are words anyway.)

An awkward cough brought Athos out of his thoughts, accompanied by the chink of a J20 bottle against his own whisky glass. Athos looked at the strangley panicked face opposite him,  flushing as rouge as the bar stool.  
Ah man, Athos thought, he must be about 20. Shit. He must think I'm ancient. (32 isn't that old... a voice in the back of his head whispers)  
\---------  
No. This was not happening. It was this first time D'artagnan had been approached by a guy in months (to his credit he'd only been out about 6 times in the last 5 months- two of them being stag do's, but still).  And he is gorgeous. All rugged and mysterious, with playful blue eyes, endless changing pace.  
And here was D'artagnan. Blushing like a fucking raspberry and holding a J20. He was one to drink, hell of a lot when he wanted, but he'd just returned from a late dinner with Constance, stood up for about half an hour trying to make himself taller, when he had finally given in to being outrageously thirsty.  
God, he must look about 12 (D'artagnan totally disregarded the fact that he was sitting in a bar.)  
\----------  
Athos was amazed to see about 20 different emotions pass through that lovely face in the space of about thirty seconds. This boy, no, man, had gotten his attention- so why was he having some kind of inner seizure?  
Athos looked at him, ignoring a confused gaze. He just looked so nervous- Athos was about to rescue the poor guy by starting a conversation, beginning to stretch out his hand, when he felt a hearty hand clamp down on his shoulder.  
Can't you see we're talking? Athos wanted to stab, but if anything, this new guest would have taken the absence of conversation that there hd been for the last two minutes.  
He turned on his bar stool, only to look up into the face of Rochefort.  
Oh for fuck sake.  
\----------  
D'artagnan had almost regained the ability to breath when he saw the man's smile begin to emerge at the side of his mouth, small and smug. So he somehow by the the grace of God, hadn't completely blown it. D'artagnan could have sworn he had seen the man begin to move his hand in welcome. But then came the blonde man, backed by two heavily built, what D'artagnan assumed were, cronnnies.  
D'artagnan did not do well with these kinds of people. The kind of people that shove you up against a wall because you don't look like a girl or a boy. - D'artagnan hated highschool.  
The beautiful, inscrutable man became suddenly heck-of-a lot less welcoming as he turned to the rat-like stranger and his back up.  
D'artagnan took this as his leave to go.  
\-----------  
Athos was done with bleeding out nicities.  
"What the fuck do you want Rochefort?"  
The addressee frowned. A horrible face, his teeth showing like a growling dog, eyes narrowing, darting around suspiciously, forhead creasing like crumpled paper. The two oafs standing behind him cracked their knuckles, stepping forwards.  
"Oi!" Came a sudden shout, people freezing in their tracks to have a sudden nose in.  
Charon, the bar owner leaned over the counter, cutting in at Rochefort, "This is not the bloody 17th century, and I sincerely do not welcome a brawl from a jackass. Now leave before I call security and ban you permanently."  
He turned, going back to mop up a drink another patron had spilt.  
Athos fought the urge to outright laugh at Rochefort's beetroot of a face, as the man shoved his seemly confused cronnies out towards the door.  
He turned, still grinning, back to the empty stool.  
\------------  
Halfway home D'artagnan started  to feel rather retched. It seemed like rugged-man had known blonde-rat man. Maybe the cronnies were rugged-man's mates too? He was probably just jumping to conclusions, making assumptions about big burley men. Maybe D'artagnan was simply being a hypocritical ass-hole.  
Maybe he'd just run away from his future husband (rugged-man, not the others, ugh).  
No. He was being ridiculous. The man was probably about to politely ask him to leave as he was meeting fellow cronnies, no, friends.  
What if the man wanted to take him home?  (Hah. Fat chance on that one). What would he say anyway? "Oh, sorry, I don't actually have a penis."?  "While you process that, I've only ever had sex with girls."  
D'artagnan was about to go into full-blown flail mode, when he realised he'd just walked two doors past his own apartment.

D'artagnan finally flopped down onto the bed in his favourite green and blue checked pyjamas. He'd taken his binder off. What a fucking relief that was,  and punched the matress.  
Who cares?  
D'artagnan asked. Honestly, who cares.  
Me. A tiny voice in the back of his head called.


	2. You haunt me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos isn't good at coping without drink, and Porthos bares the brunt of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fastest I've ever updated :0 I don't know how long this miracle will last.
> 
> *warning: vague alcohol abuse  
> Alcoholism

Porthos was somewhat surprised when a disgruntled, reasonably sober Athos came sulking in through the front door- and before midnight at that! He flicked off the sports channel, no matches worth watching tonight, and peered around the corner. Their sizeable apartment was largely open plan and Porthos watched as a clearly riled Athos hung up his coat on the ornate stand by the door and paced to the kitchen area. He hesitated, arm out, frozen in mid motion. Porthos followed where his friend's head was twitching between. The cafetiere. The wine rack.  
The cafetiere. The wine rack... the wine...  
"Brew me a coffee mate."  
Athos jumped out of his daze.  
He nodded. Brisk, no smile reaching his eyes.  
Porthos sighed inwardly, lolling off of the sofa to the floorboards. He strolled, sloping his shoulders in resignment to being on the recieving end, over to Athos.  
A strong arm reached around Athos' waist.  
Porthos waited.

He snapped.

"FUCKING WHAT PORTHOS!?"  
Athos roared wildly. Porthos never ceased to be amazed at how the man's calm façade could shatter in the blink of an eye.  
His voice was raw, eyes suddenly bloodshot as he shoved the comforting arm away. It was what he needed, but he was too fucking angry to accept.

Why the hell was Porthos looking at him so sadly!? He wasn't a pity case, and he certainly could deal with this tedious shit on his own.  
He didn't need help.  
He didn't need comforting.  
He needed alcohol.

Porthos grabbed Athos' arm as soon as he saw the conclusion in the other man's eyes.  
"FUCKING LET GO OF ME PORTOS."  
Athos struggled violently against the bear traps on each bicep.  
But Porthos knew, if Athos wanted out, he would have been out of Porthos' grasp as soon as he'd laid hands on him.  
The flailing subsided and Athos went ridgid. Bright red from both exhaustion and embarrassment.  
"Rochefort," Athos breathed, biting his lip privately as he slumped his face onto Porthos' shoulder.

Porthos growled, what had that little rat shit done this time?

They were both quiet for a minute.

Porthos began, "bud, we both know that--" Athos sighed, heavy and exasperated.  "Look, okay, I'll cut the shit. We knew this would be hard--"  
Athos scoffed, "The only blasted reason I'm not drunk under a table now is because..."  
He stopped.

When Athos entered the bar he was readily volunteering to get off his face. He'd had a shit day. He didn't care if he was being selfish, he was going crazy, night after night folded over at his desk, resisting the urge to seek out antifreeze.  
Whisky, wine, gin, jack, shots, you name it he was having it. 

Then he saw the young man at the bar.

Tanned skin, long-ish hair- not that dissimilar to his own length. But this beauty was clean shaven, dispite that he continually rubbed his hand over his cheek. Nervous? Was he waiting for someone?  
After half an hour of discretely watching the masterpiece, Athos  concluded he was just on edge at being on his own. Quite the opposite to Athos, but for some reason he felt compelled to join him, find his intrests in books, history, food, hobbies.  
Maybe... if he had a reason, he wouldn't need to... be so excessive on the drinking front tonight.  No. Hah. You're getting a bit ahead of yourself, he scoffed.

He was right. He'd spent the next two hours searching for the guy. He found himself wondering, does he like renaissance? Darren Brown? G.R.R. Martin? Sushi? Carbonara? Fencing? Running?  
Athos cursed his ever over-active imagination -"You should write stories." Aramis had said without a hint of malice when they had first met.  
Athos punched a wall and made his way back home from the bar.

"Athos...?" A soft voice called.  
"I'm sorry. I had no right to be angry with you." Porthos never deserved any of the hatred he recieved, he was the most considerate man Athos had ever had the fortune to meet.

"It's the first whisky I've had in..." he couldn't recall.  
Athos didn't remember being guided to the sofa. Then he was being gently pulled to lay down, head resting across the larger man's knees. Porthos flicked the remote up.  
Athos snuggled in even more as Porthos' flicked to NCIS and began to comb gently through Athos' matted hair. "Dude. When did you last brush your 'air?" Porthos chuckled.  
"I d....uunnmmo mm." Athos muttered through a huge yawn, ruining any threats he could put to Porthos in the future. 

Athos rolled onto his back, relaxed, warm. Porthos was right. This was, good for him. It was nice to wake up to the chirping of fluttering song birds for once without wanting to shoot them. Even the wood pigeons sounded kind of harmonious without a sharp hangover.  
Maybe he could do this.


	3. Melt, burn and scold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Athos allowed himself to relax, taking in the self-permeating guilt in full force. He couldn’t get over his contradictory character of last night.'  
> Athos feels guilty over his actions towards Porthos and wants to amend the situation, but he bumps into a certain handsome stranger...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, I've surprised myself at the updating speed.  
> Apologies that my other fics have momentarily been put on hold!

Athos felt awful, heinously guilty, and rightly so.  
He stood drumming his fingers impatiently on the florists’ front counter. He hadn’t chosen Aramis’ usual choice for when he owed another poor soul a one-night-stand-apology. It occurred all too frequently if you asked Athos. No, he’d chosen a quaint little shop with the sloping, umbrella-style front- lavender and white stripes hosting the independent title of ‘Forget-me-not’.  
Athos had found it a few years back down a side street on the edge of a Paris high-street when looking for Mother’s day flowers. Athos wasn’t usually one to comply with celebratory stereotypes, but flowers? They were something he took pleasure in, finding the perfect bouquet for each individual. Thomas would always chuckle that Athos was destined to be a florist- if only he didn’t despise people. “I don’t despise people. I’m just selective with who I… befriend.” He would always reply, looking down his nose in mock distaining snooty-ness.

Athos snapped out of his trance as a pointed cough rung through his peripheral awareness. He turned slightly, trying to look casual as he stretched out of his stooper, and noted an elderly woman in the queue behind him looking rather put out. (Unknown to Athos, he had been unremittingly frowning into a pot of Oasis containing floristry wiring, working his jaw in frustration at his behaviour yesterday. From the outside, it appeared an act of impatience with the lovely blonde florist assistant.) 

Another cough, lofty this time, irritable. Athos twitched.  
Woops.

The owner of the shop was glaring at him, eyebrows raised threateningly. Not one for words in his current demeanour, he shrugged his hand out of his jeans pocket and dumped several vingt-euro notes on the counter before gathering up an armful of greenery and beautifully arranged plant life. Athos was non-too surprised when the manager didn’t call him out on the excessive over-payment.

Athos was just plain irritated now. Great. Now he’d managed to piss off a plentiful amount of strangers as well as crossing a lovely little shop off his list of enjoyable places to wallow away the hours. He could have befriended that blonde. She was sweet, affable. Athos sighed- once again, said woman was the opposite of him (well, how he saw himself anyway. He didn’t know about Aramis or Porthos…)  
Porthos…

Athos brushed off a sculptured bench down another quiet street, opposite a delightfully aroma emanating coffee shop, one that has mini Belgian buns in the window.  
Athos allowed himself to relax, taking in the self-permeating guilt in full force. He couldn’t get over his contradictory character of last night. He remained, not angry, but disappointed, in himself. He was still in disbelief at his loss of control, the rush that it came with crushing his ability to think, blurring his vision. But there was Porthos. There was always Porthos, ready to catch him when he plummed and smashed to Earth. Aramis, he knew, would only do the same.

Some weight lifted off his shoulders as he realised his friends knew that was not him. Of course, though, the guilt remained.

Instead of grieving his mistakes, he sobered up- oh the irony- and breathed in the intoxicating scent of gardenia between his hands. The green and blue cymbidium orchids were just about to bloom in full; the metal curve of a gilded kingfisher resting in a bed of birds nest leaves centred the bouquet.

Following ten minutes of incessant ponderings, he was drawn to the mini Belgian buns in the lace-framed window. 

Athos was unsurprised to find the scenic coffee shop bustling, completely packed. It was gorgeous after all. He wound through the throngs of people to get a better look at the coffee specials board from the side. He was being ever-so careful of the flowers. He was being ever-so careful of his new light blue shirt with tiny navy birds (Ninon had purchased it in a slight re-lapse of her usual form when she squealed over how “cute” he would appear in it. Admittedly, it was his new favourite.) Other people, apparently, weren’t prepared to be ever-so careful.

All that he knew was Belgian buns, then, abruptly, “SHIT!”

Athos had scorching coffee down his pale blue shirt (sob), and half the café population looking rather affronted at his choice language.  
Still trying to suck in his abdomen in a vain attempt to wriggle away from the scolding liquid, Athos felt a palm scrunching at his shirt.  
He looked down just as apprehensive brown eyes looked back up at him through the bouquet's peacock feathers and yet more birds nest leaves. 

Athos was never one to hold back in voicing his annoyance publicly, until now. 

“Dude! I. Am. Soooo sorry!” Athos, for one thing, couldn’t believe how animated the culprit was, or, that it was the young man from the bar.  
Athos swallowed. Damn, clear those thoughts away right now mister.  
The young man continued, a smirk lighting up his eyes. Oh god.  
Athos was going down.

“I can’t even—I so should have been looking where I was going!” any smile was gone from the charming gentlemen as he took in Athos’ frozen, seemly livid expression. 

“Uh…” he took a step back.  
But Athos was too concerned with controlling what was in his pants to notice. How juvenile was this? What was he, 16? The rest of the coffee shop customers had returned to selecting a beverage, disinterested almost immediately, as the problem seemingly solved itself.

“Here!”

Athos looked down at whatever was being forced into the hand that wasn’t currently supporting a coffee-safe bouquet of flowers. A Belgian bun. Athos could have laughed with the coincidentiality of something as simple as a cake.  
“Don’t you think I deserve a coffee too?” he wanted to ask, even with a cheeky wink maybe, but the shorter masterpiece of attractiveness had disappeared into the twine of people.

Athos heard the door click shut over the chorus of sounds throughout the cafe. 

Getting through a crowd of necks craning to see the specials board, arms full with flowers and trying not to drop a bun is hell of a lot harder than it sounds. Athos considered how comical he looked when he finally reached the door. The now closed door. Athos exhaled noisily as he judgingly eyed the bun and flowers, and his therefore lack of digits. 

Another customer rammed open the door, with shut eyes according to Athos’ bristling remarks.  
Great. Now he had icing and coffee on his shirt. He had to get that off his shirt before he was subject to Aramis’ immature ridicules.  
At least Porthos’ flowers had escaped any attacks. 

The dashing young man was long gone by the time Athos walked past that sculpted bench, onwards, to return begrudgingly to home.


	4. Staying up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'artagnan supposed the movement was meant to be smooth, but neither of them were co-ordinated enough not to stumble. Regardless, D'artagnan was now pushed up against a wall. In a nice way this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy ;)
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes,!
> 
>  
> 
> SET THREE WEEKS AFTER PREVIOUS CHAP.

D'artagnan, addmitedly, had consumed 3/4 of a bottle of cheap wine before even coming out. After half an hour in this bar, he was absolutely boiling, but apparently those packed around him were far too wasted to notice.  
As a delicate hand grabbed his, he was pulled flush against a beautiful girl the same height as him, with tumbling strawberry locks. D'artagnan suddenly didn't give a shit about anything. Maybe that was a bad thing, but right now? It was fucking amazing.  
Her hands were in his hair, pulling him in. She giggled in his ear, oh so magically contrasting to the club music washing around them. They danced. She was making his blood pump around and his head was pulsing with the music.  
D'artagnan was lost in the strobe lighting, new colours flashing before his eyes as the crowd jumped in unison.  
After about twenty minutes of rather close dancing, he pulled his hands away from her hips and offered her a drink.  
She shook her head with a polite smile.  
She was just here to dance and have a good time. D'artagnan grinned. Fair enough.

He managed to escape the dance floor after a few hands attempted to pull him back in.  
That's when a pair of hazel flecked eyes looked him up and down, and rather slowly at that.

D'artagnan didn't want to sit at the bar right now. He was served a rather large malibu and made his way to the second floor of the club, which was mostly seating.  
He wound his way past the second bar (he could get his drink up here next time, D'artagnan realised) and around the high backed, silvery-metallic booths.  
Finding a free one nearish the back in the middle.  
D'artagnan was pleasantly surprised,  that although the booths provided privacy to some extent, the party atmosphere remained. There was still a more-or-less constant flow of peoe walking past and the sound of laughter and club music was everywhere. Some people were even snacking on platters- which D'artagnan supposed was a good idea to stay relatively sober, but he didn't want to right now. Instead he leaned back into the soft leather of the booth.

He was just coming to a decision about getting another drink before heading back down to the dance floor, when someone slid into the seat opposite him.  
Startled,  d'artagnan (who had been absent minded-ly been stiring his drink with a cocktail stick) looked up through his eyelashes, fist still balled into his cheek as  he leaned on the table.  
The stranger was outrageously hot, and radiating confidence.  
D'artagnan was so a match for his  cockiness.

He returned the strangers full-of-it, tilting smirk.  
"And you would be?"  
The demi-god stranger extended his hand, "Aramis."  
Aramis.  
That, was a nice name indeed.  
\----------

D'artagnan let out a somewhat bark of a laugh (cursing himself in the process.) He couldn't remember laughing this much in a while. Aramis was giggling away too, but stopped when seemingly every bit of blood in D'artagnan's body rushed to his face.  
Aramis delicately placed a hand on his and winked, "It's okay to live a bit you know."  
D'artagnan was sure he was referring to laughter.  
"Anyway," Aramis continued, "I am very much of the opinion that dancing is good for the soul."  
He winks again (god how was D'artagnan going to survive?) and took D'artagnan's hand, leading him downstairs.

D'artagnan had had far too much of an intoxicating mix by now, and was struggling not to trip. Aramis seemed to sense this and wound himself behind D'artagnan, holding both his hands now, propelling him forwards.  
"Are you okay?" He felt the whisper brush his ear. D'artagnan warmed at the question, there was no hint of annoyance or exasperation, only concern.  
D'artagnan nodded.  
"Well then," Aramis whirled him around, D'artagnan was heady with the rush, "Let's do this."  
\-------------  
Shit.  
D'artagnan was passed wasted.  
And so was Aramis, by the cooing sounds emanating from him.  
D'artagnan laughed, and continued to lean back against him with equal weight, even though he himself was a good 8 inches smaller.  
They continued to walk through Paris streets.  
At two in the morning, the only other few people stumbling along were possibly more drunk than they were.

D'artagnan supposed the movement was meant to be smooth, but neither of them we're co-ordinated enough not to stumble. Regardless, D'artagnan was now pushed up against a wall. In a nice way this time.  
\-------------

D'artagnan was giddy with the rush of a kiss, but had sobered up considerably.  
As he waited patiently for Aramis to cram his key into the lock, it hit him like a brick.  
The man from the bar, that lop sided smirk- not that dissimilar from Aramis'- but the rugged man seemed to be sharing something private with that smile, like he didn't honour many people with it. The coffee shop, the tightly clinging shirt due to that latté, D'artagnan surely owed him a coffee and a shirt.  
Then that same train of thought appeared. Shit. What was Aramis expecting? Don't be an idiot D'artagnan. Your lack of penis doesn't hinder anything. In fact, he shouldn't consider it to be a 'lack of'. Nonetheless, he felt himself begin to panic.  
"D'artagnan? Are you feeling ok? If you need to throw up- go for the tulips."  
He couldn't help but laugh as Aramis gently brushed a hand down his face. Thank goodness he hadn't openly gone for downstairs yet, he had a packer but... Aramis didn't seem one for unprecedented groping anyway.

All at once, he was being guided into a huge, fancy looking lobby-way. Jesus, how rich was this guy?  
Then it hit D'artagnan. He didn't know anything about this guy, not really.  
He changed his mind immediately, he never did this. He had nothing against it, it just wasn't... him.  
He took a step back, setting alarm bells off for Aramis.  
"Look, I'm really sorry, but..." he started flailing, going unbelievably red again.  
What he saw in Aramis' wide eyes was unexpected. Panic.  
"You should have said!" He burst out,  clearly embarrassed.  
"I- I didn't...know?" Aramis looked as confused as D'artagnan felt,  
"I'll, just... go?" He didn't know why it came out as a question, but he started reversing nonetheless.  
He stopped as Aramis made as though to grab him, before he realised the implications that might have in such a situation. He held his hands up instead...  
"You... you can stay if you want?" Holy fuck, Aramis was adorable when he was bashful, "No frisky apprehences if a gentleman such as yourself declines." With a wink, the Aramis he met in the club had returned,  relaxing them both instantaneously.  
D'artagnan looked at his watch, 2:45 flashed back at him.  
"If you're sure?"  
"My good sir," Aramis linked arms with D'artagnan, feeling that anymore would be awkward, any less may be even worse, "of course".  
\-------------  
From the grandeur of the lobby, D'artagnan shouldn't have been surprised at the size of the apartment,  but... he loved it.  
The entrance area had an victorian black coat stand, contrasting with the large modern art piece, an abstract view of Paris.  
Aramis followed his gaze, "My "flat mate" Athos painted that. -- Don't worry, they're away on one of Porthos' seminar trips."  
D'artagnan raised a curious eyebrow.  
"Athos sells paintings in his spare time, but mostly... reads. Porthos, on the other hand, is studying sociology part time and is constantly attending these ... lectures."  
Aramis said it with such distain on his face that D'artagnan had to laugh, "No guesses why you didn't go then."  
Aramis sighed, "I wouldn't mind really, it's just that Athos seems to secretly enjoy them, so I leave them to it."  
Right then, D'artagnan saw the closeness of the three and hoped he wouldn't impend on that. Then he remembered that Aramis seemed a regular at this, and his "flat mates" would never know he was even here.

"Right then. Water?" Aramis rubbed his hands, as if slightly at a loss as what to do. Clearly, this wasn't how he was used to things going.  
"I can do it if you would like?" Aramis blinked in surprise, he hoped that didn't seem to foward.  
Aramis grinned,  
"Sure. I'll go make sure my room is vaguely presentable. "

Only when D'artagnan had discovered the glasses cupboard the words sank in.  
Room?  
Presentable?  
His room?  
Was Aramis expecting a change of heart on his part?  
As  if to answer, Aramis came out of a door around the corner, from across the large open plan living room.  
"Look, um..." D'artagnan managed when Aramis reached the glasses of water. "It's not that I don't do... er I... I just don't--"  
Aramis put a hand on his arm. By now D'artagnan knew it wasn't anything weird, just Aramis' way of conveying his feelings.  
"D'artagnan. You don't have to explain anything. And, I actually had a really great time regardless."  
His smile, genuine, made D'artagnan feel over the moon.

Aramis pointed across to where he just emerged.  
"The door on the end round the corner is my room." He continued to point, this time to a door opposite the painting in the entrance area, "I'll be in Porthos' room if you need me." He paused, "I've got an en suite, but you can just have a shower tomorrow, it's late."

He was right, it was nearly three in the morning.  
\------------------

Porthos grunted.  
"Dude. What the fuck are you doing in my bed?"  
"You're home early!" Aramis grinned sleepily, "And as to your prior question," he winked, "mine is currently occupied."  
Porthos hummed in slight confusion, but chose, "Just move over you great lump."


	5. Overdone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After ten minutes Porthos looked behind the sofa to observe a bloody-nosed Athos, sitting on top of a rather battered Aramis- both panting as heavily as the other.  
> "Now you're done children, can we actually have some form of breakfast?" Porthos let out a deep chuckle at the glare he received from both participants. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! :) here's the next update, as promised!  
> I've had an extremely busy few days however, and will check for mistakes in the few days after posting. Feel free to point any out!

D’artagnan panicked, floundering in the unknown bed sheets before last night’s events, or lack thereof, came flooding back to him.  
Shit. He flopped his head back down onto the outrageously soft white pillow. D’artagnan noted that, plain white luxurious, hotel- like feel, but the character of the rest of the room prevented it from seeming sterile and hospitalised. He just lay there, taking in the lonesome rust-red rough-cut wall. An abstract, rather cute, blue rabbit canvas hung in the centre. Athos? He wondered… that was the one who painted wasn’t it? Another handsome name... 

D’artagnan realised it was the sound of a coffee machine clunking back into place, ricocheting around the apartment, that had woken him. The scent wafted in. Aramis must be busying around. D’artagnan sighed, he wished… he didn’t know what; for friends perhaps? The young gascon didn’t anticipate it to take so long.  
Of course he wasn’t expecting instantaneous life-long-friends to be falling from the sky as soon as he stepped one foot into Paris, but he had moved here a little more than six months ago. Granted, he hasn’t been to a huge variation of places. His flat, small and on the outskirts, had become his hidey-hole, full of p paperbacks and sketchbooks. He did go out- it wasn’t that- always taking a sketchbook with him, he loved exploring Paris’ buildings. There was always something new to awe inspire, and something old to learn. 

D’artagnan, for some reason, had avoided all of Paris’ “must-go” places, sticking simply to the local coffee shop, the hyper market, his flat and the library. That new club? A new journey he was particularly proud of.  There was always Constance of course, but with her new interior-design consultant job, she was high in demand- either out of Paris in normal-people-day-time, or out of the country altogether. D’artagnan exasperated himself sometimes. What was it he wanted, some kind of urban dream? He reclined in the unfailingly squishy paper-white duvet. Constance had said he should work on stoicism, but he was far too expressive for that, without even meaning to, it was as if expression and emotion leaked from his every pore. Mr. Rugged in the coffee shop seemed pretty stoic… he shook his head, congratulations D’artagnan for bringing back that horrendous memory, not that rugged man was the horrid part mind you…  
His mind wandered back…  
Constance had quizzed his lack of ventures since coming to the city, if it centred around being in stealth-mode, if he was worried.  
Strangely enough, as of yet his transliness hadn't exactly effected his move. 

Aramis' melodic laugh brought him out of his daze.  
Right, shower.  
\-----------  
Bloody hell, D'artagnan could wrap himself up in the indulgent, fluffy towels and stay in his newly formed cocoon forever.

It's not like he was poor or anything, or lacking in domestic items, these people just seemly splashed out on the smaller comforts in life. He knew it wasn't cockiness, but a sort of why-do-things-half-heartedly?.

Coming back into the bedroom he took a quick glance at the clock, shit, 10.30. Is there some kind of time rule to one night stands? Would that even apply considering all he did was sleep in a separate room? He came to the conclusion that it was probably best to leave anyway, he  didn't want to over stay his welcome more than he already had. Pinching some of the anti-perspirant on the bedside table, he pulled on yesterday's boxers. D'artagnan didn't want to waste more time, but what was the point in cocking this up for the sake of speed? After some adjusting with binder and packer, he was ready to go. He just hadn't formulated what to say yet, but, as Constance regularly informed him, he had more rabbit than the rest of France.   
He picked up his jacket and made his way through the door.  
\---------------  
Athos couldn't be happier to be home. He let out a little amused smile at Aramis' latest antics as a lawyer. And he was bloody unbelievably glad to come away from those god-awful lectures that Porthos had set his heart on- so he couldn't say no really could he. Aramis, the sneaky shit, had got there first and compiled "evidence" out of thin air that Athos was simply denying his extended love for these outings. No wonder the man's a lawyer.  
Athos raised an eyebrow in confusion at Aramis, at the clicking sound that radiated from the latter's room. His alarm was not, however, soothed when the alluring, handsome man, still trying to tame his dampened mane, froze on the other side of the sitting room.  
The young man from the bar. The one who had his hands scrunching up his, now deceased, favourite shirt in a vain attempt to save it from coffee stains.  
He stood staring at the newly-appeared gentleman, who, much more openly, gawped back at Athos.  
But most importantly, he stood in his apartment. 

Exiting Aramis' room.

"Know each other? Please don't tell me you're cousins or something?" Aramis' uneasy smile quickly slid off his face altogether when both heads snapped to look at him. (D'artagnan's definitely more of a plea than Athos' look of absolute death).

"Would, you, like to. Introduce, us?" Athos gritted out.  
Aramis was out of his depth at this point.  
D'artagnan, for the hunderth time since meeting these people, blushed like a middle-schooler. D'artagnan stood in disbelief, partly because of the intensity with which these two men were staring at each other, but also because... it was rugged man. 

The fine-looking one from the bar.  
The one simultaneously radiating annoyance and hotness at the site of the coffee incident. The reason he didn't sleep with Aramis.

"Uh." Smooth D'artagnan.  
"I'll be... going now?"

"No." "Yes."

The two men behind the kitchen island turned to look at each other in a rage.  
"Why the hell not Athos? He's my, honoured, house guest. Where have your usual lack of manners gone!?" D'artagnan couldn't believe how much sarcasm Aramis managed to compound into that last sentence.

So this was Athos the painter.

"I like your rabbit!" D'artagnan said innocently enough. For fuck sake, his conscience was threatening to jump off a cliff when both parties stopped to look at him in confusion (Aramis mixed in a bit of amusement).

"Anyway--" he swallowed, and felt a thousand times more awkward when two pairs of eyes flickered to his adams apple."--I will be going now." 

He nodded in thanks.  
There was a moment where everyone simply shuffled in the height of social ineptitude. Great.  
\----------------

Only after D'artagnan was gone did Aramis move to the otherside of the sofa.  
Crap. Athos looked beyond pissed.

As per usual, their partisan peacekeeper emerged from his room just in time to look at a seething Athos, whose hands were curled into fists. Porthos spoke first, "could have been a bit quieter with all that then."  
"No one wants you sleeping in till two in the afternoon, Porthos." Athos growled, annoyed at the idea of a spectator.

Silence.

"So, how do you know D'artagnan?"  
Athos lunged at Aramis across the sofa. Porthos sighed, sinking into that very chair, flicking on the absurdly big flat screen, and let the battle commence.

After ten minutes Porthos looked behind the sofa to observe a bloody-nosed Athos, sitting on top of a rather battered Aramis- both panting as heavily as the other.  
"Now you're done children, can we actually have some form of breakfast?" Porthos let out a deep chuckle at the glare he received from both participants.   
\-----------------

"Look," Aramis sighed after a vast amount of pancakes, "You can't just never speak to me again."  
"I could if I wanted." A rather indignant reply came, Athos reddening at his increasingly juvenile behaviour.   
He exhaled at the inquisitive, but kind look he received from Porthos.  
"It was him."  
Porthos and Aramis exchanged a glance. The first placed a hand on his arm, "sorry to break it to you mate, but we know alot of guys".

Athos went past red into purple with his own embarrassment.   
"The one from the bar. And the coffee shop... the one I was telling you about."

Aramis dropped his fork, to the dismay of Porthos who got oil splattered on his shirt.  
"Fuck! Athos! If you'd have told me I wouldn't have dragged it out!"  
Athos looked alarmed, "what?"  
Aramis looked seemly flustered, a rarity, going red. "We never slept together. He came here to... yeah, well he came here and he mumbled something about another guy, so he couldn't. But we were both so out of it I said he could just stay, seeing as you guys were out of town- or so I thought..."  
Aramis' words tumbled out, but Athos could only focus on one thing.

'Another guy'.  
D'artagnan had another guy.


	6. Ripe and Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'artagnan couldn't believe he just asked that outright,  he sounded like a whiney child. but his head was pounding and blood was trickling into his mouth, so he lost the ability to care when Athos took hold of his bicep to steady him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Next chapter  
> 

"He had brown hair and brown eyes." Porthos frowned while Aramis made a little exasperated sound.  
"Avid description their Athos. You have my heart bleeding." It was at this point Athos had put a little more effort into his flat description of D'artagnan.  
*******

Trust him to fuck up again, D'artagnan always managed to do that at precisely the worst moment. Sure, he and Aramis most likely would have simply parted ways and would never have seen each other again. But they might, only might, have become good friends. They fit together like puzzle pieces, with even a similar sense of humour- although Aramis was undoubtedly full of a lot more innuendo.  
D'artagnan's shoulders sagged, unable to fathom why he was so obsessed with this. He had friends... well, one or two anyway. He just couldn't dispose of the image of returning home to that apartment on a regular turn - and it wasn't because of the fucking fluffy towels. 

Then there was Athos ... something about the man just drew him in. Maybe D’artagnan was over obsessing, and it was merely a pining to be accepted. But he didn’t feel that way about anyone else, not Aramis, not Constance, not Porthos. D’artagnan wasn’t one to seek attention, but damn he wanted more than that man’s praise. 

So engulfed in his brooding was D’artagnan, that on turning the street corner he was abruptly drawn to a halt as his down-tilted head smashed into a bony shoulder.

D’artagnan met razor-sharp eyes that were lit with an ice blue ire.    
The straggly rat-man from the bar looked as though he were ready to destroy D’artagnan’s face with his bare teeth.  
Panicking, D’artagnan took a sudden step back, if this man was as unwelcoming as Athos… 

D’artagnan jerked as a steady hand was placed on his shoulder. He met the blonde’s gaze once more, hospitable- but not warm, D’artagnan noted. Did he imagine that extremely violent glare?  

“Athos’ friend right?” The man’s voice was as sly as expected.  
D’artagnan nodded- why the heck was he nodding!? They weren't friends, they were barely acquaintances!  
“Well,” the man acted sincere, but D’artagnan could see right through to the snide underneath,  
“I have some unfortunate information to share with you, handsome young man.” D’artagnan cringed, ignoring the glowers he received as wriggled from underneath the vice-like grip on his shoulder.  
“D’artagnan,” he presented his hand in greeting. He would hear whatever this slimy man had to say for himself, but remained determined to be cautious. D’artagnan would form his own opinions of Athos.

“Rochefort.” The man shook in return, smiling over the disgust.  
"Tell you what," the overly touchy-feely Rochefort slung an arm around D'artagnan and trundled through, "Let's discuss this over coffee, shall we?"  
There was no room for argument in the tonality of his question, immediately setting D'artagnan on edge.

D'artagnan knew he'd been roped into more than a quick chat when he was  carted half way back across the city towards Athos', and subsequently farther and farther away from his own cramped little niche of an apartment.

Rochefort settled for a mainstream coffee franchise, nice, but no thought had gone into the destination whatsoever.

D'artagnan sighed deeply, not caring in the slightest if he was heard by the entire room, let alone his current company. Rochefort snapped his fingers at the seemingly most nervous waitress and ordered two mocha's and some oddly worded pastries, "sharpish". It occurred to D'artagnan he had no idea how much time had passed since the argument between Athos and Aramis earlier that day

He went to pull his phone from the front pocket of his jeans, but froze as he received a shrewd rap on the knuckles. D'artagnan stared. Did this ratty little man actually just do that?  
D'artagnan continued to gawp as no apology surfaced, not so much as a flinch.  
Instead the jack-ass pursed his lips and spat, "Do you want to know or not? I don't have to be wasting my valuable, and highly sort after, time here."  
What a jumped up shit, D'artagnan thought.  
"I think you'll find you dragged me here of your own accord." The gascon gritted out.

A short daggers match ensued.

The men snapped out of their rather heated staring contest as the mousey waitress returned. "Your order sir!" The poor girl squeaked in return before retreating.

"Look," Rochefort's fake sincerity was slathered back onto his pinched face, "Athos, is not all that savoury."  
D'artagnan raised an eyebrow as Rochefort continued unsuccessfully to blaze his trail. He leaned in, for what D'artagnan assumed was meant to be dramatic impact.  
"Athos is... has committed many a crime."  
D'artagnan swallowed, did he mean literally or metaphorically?  
"With," another spectacular pause "women. mistreatment, blackmail, possible...death? you name it? The lot."  
D'artagnan hesitated and Rochefort took his shot.  
"Yes, yes, all awful and what have you." He was being incredibly blasé for a man who had just insinuated known rape and murder situations. Rochefort grabbed D'artagnan's hands over the table in morbid enthusiasm, "but we can right his wrongs!!"  
D'artagnan started to panic now, letting a nervous laugh slip. Was the guy on some kind of austerity pledge? What did D'artagnan have to do with any of this?

"Athos knows I'm on to him." Rochefort's Cheshire cat grin fell away to reveal a core of fixation,  
"But I can't make a move you see. There are certain... legal preventions in place obstructing me from bringing this villain to justice.  
Athos comes from a long line of nobility, in fact his late father was the comte de la fere." Rochefort raised an eyebrow expectantly,  but all that D'artagnan's brain could register was the possibility, the ridiculous notion, that Athos was a rapist murderer. He wouldn't believe it, the way Rochefort had come out with it so nonchalantly in such a mundane setting, but he couldn't dismiss it completely either...  
Annoyed at the boys lack of reaction, Rochefort continued with a flourish,  "I must propose to you that, with the right tactics, if, when, the evidence is found against Athos, the damning media spotlight will engulf him and his family so brightly, no one will notice a few broken exposure contracts. They will be brought to their knees."  
Rochefort finished, triumphant, still grasping D'artagnan's hands.  
So there it was.  
There was no evidence.  
D'artagnan was simply stewing the delusions of a crack pot intent on some form of old-world family revenge.  
\--------------------

Athos decided to walk off both the heartbreak (which he refused to acknowledge) and Porthos' delicious maple pancakes.  
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as far as he could without going as far as to ripping the lining.  
Always. Everytime. Every. Fucking. Chance. Every split second of hope he allowed himself to hold since... Anne, went to shit.  
How juvenile, he was letting himself be led by the pining of some boy uninterested in the likes of him. Athos berated himself. This wasn't like him; to become so utterly self-depreciating, people wanted him, yes, but... was this because of Aramis? The two hadn't slept togther, but they could of, would of... if only for that uttered someone. And there Athos was. Back to square one. D'artagnan, was otherwise, taken.

Mon dieu. He needed a coffee.

He didn't even care that this chain company only sold shitty lattés, he needed the comforting caffeine. Reaching for door handle-- Athos froze. D'artagnan. With. Rochefort.  
No no no no no no no no no.  
Rochefort could not be the "other guy". No.  
Athos realised he had been stuck relentlessly in exactly the same position for at least two minutes when an awkward cough came from a gangly gandalf of a man trying to get through the doorway.  
Athos shuffled awkwardly towards the window. Well, they hadn't seen him- that was promising- he supposed, but what he saw? Athos wanted to jump off of the Louvre. They were holding hands, D'artagnan laughed, though somewhat shakily, accompanied by Rochefort's shit eating grin.

Athos didn't get coffee.  
He turned.  
He walked.

He stormed two straight blocks before he decided to, in fact, give Rochefort a piece of his mind.  
Athos doubled back on himself,  preparing for the sass of a lifetime.  
\-----------------------

After the realisation that Rochefort could potentially be a very dangerous person to be around, or even look at to be fair, D'artagnan stood up from their table. And instantly regretted that decision.

As if in anticipation, a slender hand shot out to clasp D'artagnan's narrower-than-average wrist, and pulled down hard.  
"You listen to me--" D'artagnan had had enough.  
He shoved his face as close to Rochefort's as he dared (in case that earlier remark about the teeth-face'-eating came to light), and drove I  his words like a stake.  
"No. How about you listen to me. Get your gross hands and evil fucking mastermind plans off of me."  
With that he stood up and made his way out of the door into the early afternoon air.

What he didn't expect as an alternative to a fresh intake of oxygen, was a jagged yank to the back of his collar, momentarily cutting off his air supply as it dug into his windpipe.

D'artagnan rounded on his attacker as soon as he was free; "YOU MALICIOUS CUNT." He was contemplating sucker-punching Rochefort  square in the face, when the man himself beat him to it.  
\-----------------------

Athos was just beginning to swivel on the ball of his foot to turn the corner on the coffee shop, when jumped to hear an enraged shout.  
"YOU MALICIOUS CUNT."

D'artagnan!

Athos rounded the corner in spectacular timing to witness D'artagnan getting smashed straight in the face. 

*****  
Athos has never slammed anyone in the face with such might in his life, he pondered as he took the sight of an unconscious Rochefort sprawled on the pavement.  
He was by D'artagnan's side in two strides.  
\---------------------  
The crack spread throughout D'artagnan's face with a shuddering intensity, the crunch of bone and catelidge ricocheting down his jaw and through his skull. He hoped the ground would hurt less than Rochefort's outstrike.  
D'artagnan's body didn't hit the ground.

Confusion reigned as the sound came flooding back in. D'artagnan realised he must have cried out, or more of a grunt really, as the knuckles collided with the bridge of his nose in a sickening grind.

D'artagnan didn't quite believe Rochefort, he wondered as his head span, because he seems like an outright dick, but somehow his words made him nervous about Athos.  
But home. Aramis. Phone. You. Help. Ouch.

Home. D'artagnan heard that word again uttered from somewhere.

His head began to resurface some of what had happened. Ah crap.  
"Will Aramis be there?" D'artagnan couldn't believe he just asked that outright,  he sounded like a whiny child. but his head was pounding and blood was trickling into his mouth, so he lost the ability to care when Athos took hold of his bicep to steady him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love you guys give me :D!


	7. Blush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos makes it back home with a sluggishly bleeding D'artagnan, where he lets Aramis do all the mother-henning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! A quick update for once :0 this is actually a suupper long chapter :D  
> I hope you enjoy it, although I have to admit, it's taken on a bit of a mind of its own!! The story has taken itself somewhere unexpected :)  
> \+ Flea will be introduced in the next chapter (I feel like Porthos needs some love).
> 
> *warning: -mentions of blackmailing and brief mention of rape.

Athos was trying to contain his anger, it wouldn’t do any good to let D’artagnan see- Rochefort’s probably already planted enough shit today- although, D’artagnan was willingly pliable in Athos’ hands, which is a good sign. Mind you, he considered, that might be just lack of awareness. Athos was becoming increasingly concerned the frontal punch had led to some form of concussion.  
Athos inhaled sharply at the memory of D’artagnan uttering for Aramis. Athos felt no jealously there, just… love? Athos didn’t know what kind, but it was radiating from his chest, both for the immediate faith D’artagnan had in Aramis, and the young man Athos currently had slumped against his side as they made their way along the Parisian streets. 

They were doing quite well, until they reached the next block. He felt D’artagnan jolt where he had most his weight on Athos’ chest.  
“Shit!” D’artagnan let out with a jagged gasp. He swung his head up too violently, causing him to sway and stagger back, he would have fallen had Athos not been there.

Athos hushed the young gascon as he saw what could have been a mirror, panic scorching the other man’s cognac eyes.  
“Hush,” Athos gently put a finger to D’artagnan’s mouth, whose breathing was becoming far too rapid. Not wishing to alarm him more, Athos bent  down (ever-so-slightly) and slowly released D’artagnan’s arms. D’artagnan snivelled- and consequently looked mortified with himself. Athos couldn’t help wanting to scoop him up and carry him home, using all mental effort not to do so.

“Shit.” D'artagnan whispered again, looking up at Athos, clutching his sluggishly bleeding nose.  “I ‘ake it fom the ‘ay you s’hlushed him in the ‘ace you’re not remo’ley friends?” D’artagnan managed to get out before spitting a glob of blood onto the pavement.  
“Gross,” He went yet another shade of beetroot as passersby looked at him with varying degrees of disgust and pity. Athos must have picked up on his mortification as he decided it was acceptable to place an arm protectively around D’artagnan’s shoulders. 

He titled D’artagnan’s chin tenderly upwards as to look at him. “Ignore them.” As soon as it left his mouth Athos’ overactive brain began to flounder. Shit. He’d coincidentally used two imperatives in a row- what if D’artagnan indeed thought he was the overbearing monster Rochefort had undoubtedly made him out to seem. Apparently, D’artagnan was becoming attuned to Athos’ way of thinking a lot quicker than the rest of humanity- the younger man tugged at the cuff of Athos’ sleeve, the one not cradling his shoulders, he gazed up at Athos; “Stop. Panicking, breathe.” Athos realised his vision had become measurably tunnelled, his head tilted dangerously, stilting towards D’artagnan’s face. That beautiful, puppy face. He pulled away abruptly, causing them both to sway precariously. D’artagnan let out a laugh, the holiest thing Athos had heard all day, “I thought you were supposed to be holding me up? Not the other way round.”  
“Right.” Athos coughed, it was his turn to flush immeasurably.  
“Yes. Well, um…” Classy, once again Athos. 

“Just so you know,” It was back to D’artagnan blushing again. Fuck, he was cute. Don’t reason with yourself Athos.  
D’artagnan soldiered onwards, “I don’t… give a shit about what Rochefort says.” He gave a firm nod, yet Athos still sensed nervousness. Athos knew from this though, the young man didn’t trust him fully yet, but was clearly intelligent enough to make his own merited decisions. Athos was happier with that, maybe the boy was older than he first presumed- he rather hoped so. D’artagnan came back into focus, through his blurry thinking, chewing his bottom lip as he frowned up at Athos. “I’m still alright to come to yours then?” Athos heard a cheeky ‘you owe it to me’ in the tone, but clearly D’artagnan didn’t want to be too presumptuous. Athos actually grinned for once.  
\---------------------------------  
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO HIM!?” Aramis swept up D’artagnan protectively away from Athos as soon as the mahogany door swung open. Athos humoured him, he knew by now to let Aramis get on with his mother-henning.  
D’artagnan was rather put out as Aramis’ hands ghosted all over his face, pulling at his eyelids and tilting his chin back.  
“Uh, Aramis?”  
“Shh!” the endearingly harsh reply left D’artagnan at a loss for words. 

“Now, now Aramis my dear fellow, don’t ‘urt the kid.”  
D’artagnan only flicked his eyes, retaining Aramis’ warning, towards Porthos’ chuckle.  
Aramis tsked, “Hardly a kid at 24 my dear,” Aramis winked at Porthos. 

Athos’ heart stopped with hope.

 

“…For the love of God Athos! Tissues!?”

Athos snapped out of his stupor to find three pairs of eyebrows raised at him. One knowing, one humorous, and the youngest thoroughly confused. 

******  
Aramis sighed, “Cracked, not broken. Looks like you just need an ice pack and securing tape.”  
“I thought you were a lawyer?” D’artagnan decided it was safe enough to speak up now Aramis was finished inspecting him. 

“Ex-paramedic.” Aramis smiled, “But out in the wide world, I realised, there are so many people who are left without help, even after awful things have been done to them. I couldn’t sit back whilst criminals went unpunished.”  
D’artagnan looked at him with, was that, pride?  
Athos came to put a hand on Aramis’ shoulder and stuck his bum out so as to be on their sitting level. 

Athos was about to ask if D’artagnan had plans when he caught D’artagnan’s eye. 

Of course he had plans. There was someone else. Someone else probably waiting at home in a cosy flat. But why would a seemingly faithful young gentleman such as D’artagnan even be out with a stranger like Aramis in the first place then? (No discredit to Aramis, the self proclaimed sex-god). Maybe D’artagnan was in love with someone then. That was worse. A whole lot worse.

D’artagnan shifted awkwardly under Athos’ steely gaze.  
“So!” They all jumped as Porthos clapped his hands in an attempt to salvage the moment.  “Did anyone actually manage to get lunch in amongst all this mess?” Aramis’ stomach gave a timely rumbled.

“No,” D’artagnan mumbled, suddenly sour, “Not a sip of coffee. Nor was I going to take a bite of Rochefort’s fucking pastries.” All three of the inseparables snapped their heads towards him in shock, understanding the double meaning there.  
Athos scraped his chair back, surging to his feet.  
“Son of a bitch.” Porthos growled. Aramis simply looked at D’artagnan with paramounted concern. D’artagnan took in all of their reactions, “No! No, nothing actually happened, he just… kept insisting I was too handsome, whatever that means. And went for unnecessary amounts of touching. He backed down when I made it clear there wasn’t going to be any kind of agreement, let alone that. I didn’t touch the literal pastries either.”  
The three older men exchanged glances, “Deal?” Aramis asked. Athos now gained the centre of attention with his pissed groan. “That antagonizing little prick…He offered you money, right? Sex? Holidays? Dream job?” D’artagnan nodded sullenly.  
“Up to his old tricks is he?” Porthos growled. Neither he nor Aramis knew the story behind it, but they knew the extent of Rochefort’s instigating.

There was a moment of fuming silence before Athos spoke again. His voice cold, disconnected, "What did he tell you about me, D'artagnan." He placed every word carefully.  
The silence resumed, much more intense this time. D'artagnan felt like he was being, not judged per-say, but everything had suddenly become cautious.  
What should he say?

'Speak you're mind, my dear D'artagnan, but take care of the tone in every situation.' Something his mother had told him.

"He said," D'artagnan swallowed, unsure where to look. "You, Athos, was..." D'artagnan temperature started to raise, his pulse fluttering.  
Athos crouched in front of D'artagnan, obviously in an attempted to seem less intimidating.  
Porthos smiled, "Spit it out, you didn't put the thoughts in that monkey brain of his."  
So D'artagnan let it all rush out in one go.

"He said there was some unfortunate news he had to tell me because I was Athos' friend, then he took me to that crappy chain coffee shop and ordered the crappy pastries, he said I had to dish the dirt out on you, that he couldn't because of laws, and something to do with newspapers? He called you a blackmailer Athos, that you attacked woman, and that...well, he basically called you a rapist."

Porthos and Aramis took a collective intake of breath. Athos seemed rather unaffected.  
"Well." He simply stated. "He's certainly upped the anti since last time."

"Last time?" D'artagnan tilted his head in query.  
Aramis patted Porthos' leg and the latter curled his fists in anger.  
"Believe it or not the slimey little fellow approached us when we first befriended Athos,"  
Aramis glanced at the other two for permission to continue: "I met Athos around the age of 19, and he was a little older; I shamefully have to admit, I may have been slightly more cautious about Rochefort's warnings than you have been thus far--"  
"Hardly shameful," Athos scoffed, cutting in, "there was no valiant Aramis waiting back at home for you, and Rochefort still managed to cling onto some of his decorum and tactfulness."  
"Even so," Aramis countered, "I was easily fooled. We'd, me and grumpy cat here," Athos rolled his eyes and Porthos hummed in slight amusement, "hung out a few times when Rat-shit came along. He approached me at a bar- I think we all know by now I withold an inner-stripper within me- and I was dancing rather excitedly on a table. He offered me the aforementioned things-" Aramis took in D'artagnan's expression- "-all of which I declined, I hasten to add. But, I avoided Athos for... longer than what felt humanly possible," Athos nodded at him. "What I did was cruel, and I couldn't stand it! Imagine how an already depressed Athos was feeling! I don't, I don't know how he forgave me when I went back to find him."  
"Because you were scared." Athos said, resolute. "You forget the part where Rochefort sent blackmailers and henchmen after you. At 19."

"All b't found me a few months later!" Porthos nudged Aramis' elbow, Athos' smile was warm. "Finally got a social sciences scholarship at 20. Would you believe it? Ecole Normale s  
Supérieure, Paris. Rochefort, the scum, approached with similar shit once he heard news of a Comte de la fere hanging out with a person of colour. That's when my turn with the threats came." It was Aramis' time to growl. D'artagnan's mouth hung open at the jurassic ideals.  
"The rat hates anyone who isn't a cis- gendered, straight, white, french "purebred"." Athos spat.

Shit. D'artagnan felt the panick rise. Fuck. Why was he freaking out? Porthos was on that list, so was Aramis by the looks of it. So why was he freaking out? Yes, he was trans but he wasn't straight either. But the sexuality isn't visible, being transgender, to himself at least,  sure as fuck was. What if Rochefort sent people after him like he seemed to make a habit of? Fuck. What if they? what if? What? D'artagnan was suffocating inside his own head.

"D'artagnan." Came a sharp call.  
His eyes flickered back from wherever he'd drowned to. Aramis was crouched in front of him again, cupping his face, but it wasn't him who'd called for him. Athos loomed over them, as if to protect them.

"Listen," porthos slid off of the soft white sofa to join them between the chairs and the large kitchen.  
"No-one's going to lay a finga on you. We won't let them."  
D'artagnan's heart did a jig at that last statement. Maybe, just maybe, they would be more than, what Constance like to call, acquaintance friends.

"It would give us all a piece of mind if you stayed the night." Athos nodded confirmation with Aramis' statement.

D'artagnan swallowed.  
This was serious shit and all he could think about was his,  hopefully, new friendships forming.  
"This is real isn't it. I mean, shit, are you actually a comte?" Athos frowned at his choice of question. D'artagnan never wanted to see that disappointed expression again. "It would never make a difference. It's just that all this old-family-blood stuff makes it a little more..."  
"Impressive? Movie-lik--" Porthos dug into Aramis' ribs. Athos smirked,  
"so do you want to get anything from your apartment?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg it's the middle of the night here but. So. Hot. Yes, I live in England, but I am not used to any kind of warmth, then suddenly the middle of summer makes an appearance. 
> 
> Thank you always for the love and comments! Keep 'em coming! ;)


	8. A puppy in Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos can be observant when he wants to be, but Aramis still has to get things running smoothly.
> 
> Athos looked like he wanted to climb into his coffee cup when Porthos and Aramis turned their evil gazes, condemning him.
> 
> “Guys, It’s cool. I was joking. Don’t give Athos another heart attack.” D’artagnan laughed. He turned and entered his room on the left, unintentionally leaving the door open just a crack. So he was just as surprised as Porthos and Aramis when he heard the door click shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again :)
> 
> * Warning: The small beginnings of a panic attack, that doesn't expand.

They'd headed to a shabbier part of Paris, on the outskirts, Porthos couldn't help but realise. Then again, anywhere was shabbier than the central apartment Athos had so graciously provided. Yet, D'artagnan's place- Porthos assumed this was where they were approaching- was decidedly safer-looking than where Porthos had sprung up from. It made him appreciate their apartment’s location; rich enough to not be mugged on every street corner, but no-where near the high-aristocratic-society Athos so hated. Still, being back out in the rougher suburbs did wonders for cunning nostalgia that Porthos secretly revelled in.

Porthos had volunteered to go with D'artagnan whilst the A's found sufficient parking that wouldn't see Athos' rather fancy BMW disappearing.  
He placed a steadying hand on D'artagnan's shoulder as the younger man stumbled slightly up the steps to the door.  
Once again, D'artagnan flushed a delightful rosy colour- no wonder Athos found the guy adorable. Porthos couldn't not see them together, despite D'artagnan's apparent "other guy", Porthos didn't get the impression he was indeed taken.

D'artagnan could be in love? A small voice told him.  
God. For Athos' sake, he hoped not.

The building was quite grand actually, likely the millionaires' of its time. Now, however, two of the ground floor windows were boarded up, and the painting was beginning to flake off, the wooden frame of the already replaced glass door beginning to split from decades of weathering. Nevertheless, the fourth floor roof remained intact, and the miniature balconies (ignoring the rust) added that extra bit of grandeur.  
Porthos guessed that D'artagnan owned, or rented, a very small percentage of this building. Not because it would be ludicrously expensive for a student (he'd noticed the Paris university lanyard D'artagnan retrieved from his pocket), but because Porthos knew already that D'artagnan wouldn't be one to allow an amazingly beautiful piece of architecture to fall into such disrepair.  
Athos had reignited a slither of Porthos' appreciation for buildings- living on the streets leads you to not give a shit about complimentary shape or materials or scale. A roof is a roof.

Porthos found him frowning when he reached the top of the wide, open steps.  
The source of his worry was the frustrated and somewhat embarrassed groan emanating from D'artagnan.  
The gascon sighed.  
"It can be temperamental." He shrugged, gesturing to the key card in his hand.  
Porthos desperately wanted D'artagnan to know he didn't care about flaking walls or dodgy key cards.  
"The building's worth it though..."  
D'artagnan scoffed, "Yeah. Sure. Forget the extra cash, the leaky taps and mildew." His gaze became heated, before looking up at a gently grinning Porthos.  
Oh.  
D'artagnan realised Porthos wasn't taking the piss.  
Porthos' grin turned shit-eating as he saw the change in expression, and nudged D'artagnan's shoulder.  
"That bad, eh?"  
D'artagnan grimaced. Then exhaled, leaning to the side slightly.  
"It's the main reason I chose the place. I wouldn't have minded the extra cost, if only the place wasn't fucking falling in on itself. Made the mistake of online buying you see - couldn't make a trip in to view it before I moved from farming country."  
Porthos nodded. "Ah. The perils of online buying. Bought a plushie off ebay once for Aramis. That didn't end well- namely because it turned out to be a real cat."  
D'artagnan barked at that, a little tension easing from his shoulders, but still remained heavy.  
"What's stressing you out, D'art?"  
D'artagnan stuttered to reply. For a second Porthos thought he had over stepped, before he saw a quiet delight in D'artagnan's coffee-coloured eyes at the spontaneous nickname.

He paused for thought.  
"It's... it's silly really. It's just that my apartment is rather diminished compared to... others. Oh man. It's not even that really. I'm worried, I'm worried Athos will read me like a book with the higglty-pigglty contense of it. Or you guys think I'm gross because of the mould..."  
There was something else, so Porthos waited.

"OR, that Rochefort's cronies will completely and utterly trash my home when it's just the way I like it!"  
He finally blurted out.  
Porthos suddenly felt so fucking angry that this shit was happening to a such a potentially vulnerable guy.  
"Rochefort,” he stepped closer to D'artagnan protectively, "won't get anythin' near you, or your stuff. And if any damage 'appens, I will personally set his ugly concrete mansion on fire. Then make him shit out those bloody pastries whole."

D'artagnan physically sagged in relief.  
"Besides," Porthos continued, "Mildew isn't down to personal hygiene, unless ya 'ave it growing under your armpits. And I would never see someone's home as "diminished"- not after trying to shack up in many-a homeless soup kitchen."  
The other young man's eyes widened, but Porthos liked the solid admiration, rather than pity or sympathy, that he saw there.

"As for Athos- I fear he loses all logic when it comes to you."  
Porthos panicked for a brief second; worried the boy would flounder, had he made him uncomfortable?  
But to Porthos' smug pleasure, D'artagnan simply froze, gaping, before trying, and failing, to swallow a bashful smile.

The relaxed laughter of Aramis reached their ears. Porthos grinned, joined by Aramis, as he took in D'artagnan gazing appreciatively, excitedly, at an Athos absorbing himself in the architecture. Clearly this was something D'artagnan held in high regard. Athos' gaze flicked up, but D'artagnan didn't look away, almost smouldering.

Athos was the one to break the contact, D'artagnan visibly knocked as Athos expression shuttered.  
D'artagnan frowned, as did Porthos and Aramis, turning back to the door, willing it to open with the first swipe- success for once.  
Porthos exchanged a glance with Aramis, who merely rolled his eyes as Athos awkwardly strolled through the door into the lobby, opting out of conversation.

Looks like it's up to us then, Aramis looked at Porthos.

“Nice place.” Porthos offered.

D’artagnan’s look turned rancid. “Yeah. A shitty building for a failed architecture student, priceless.” All four of them shuffled awkwardly on the scuffed, chequered flooring before a panicked look reached D’artagnan’s eyes when he realised he’d been nothing but cynical since his guests arrived.  
Wow. He mentally applauded himself. This is why you don’t invite people over.

Aramis, however, seemed to instantly radar this anxiety, his graceful grin breaking the tension, slinging an arm over D’artagnan’s shoulders.  
“We gentlemen, are very much looking forward to seeing your humble abode. I, for one, used to share a four bedroomed house with my gloriously Spanish parents, resulting in seemly endless extended family gatherings, and five sisters.” He began to guide D’artagnan up the stairs, assuming D’artagnan would call him out if a change in direction was needed- with the other two following like overwhelmed puppies. They really do panic unbelievably easily, Aramis shook his head to himself.

“So you study architecture? Which university?” He continued.  
“Ecole Nationale Supérieure d'Architecture de Paris-Belleville.” D’artagnan seemed to dissolve into his element then, “It’s brilliant. Exactly why I moved to Paris. Where I used to live out in the country, don’t get me wrong I miss it every day, but there was nothing there. Nothing. I used to dream of coming to Paris, but now I’ve done it… it’s…”  
He gestured to the corridor around him at the top of the stairs.  
“Not what you had in mind.” Aramis finished.  
D’artagnan looked down apprehensively at his shoes. “I haven’t exactly done myself justice in going out either.”  
Both Aramis and D’artagnan looked up, surprised, when a soft grunt came from Athos.  
“You’ve done a fucking lot better than I did when I first lived in Paris on my own. I ordered my shopping in and didn’t leave the house for two weeks.”  
Porthos gave a cheeky beam at D’artagnan’s shocked expression.  
“Weren’t there to see it myself, but ya better believe he’s gone nearly as long since I’ve met ‘im.”

By now, they’d reached the second staircase at the end of the corridor. Half the handrail was missing on the spiral, but no one mentioned it.  
After another long corridor walking in the other direction, and up one more- surprisingly more intact- staircase, D’art pulled out a heavily-keyringed set to unlock the middle door on the right.  
It swung inwards into a little sitting room; TV below the window opposing the door, and a low glass table with four little white puffy stalls in the centre. The red curtains were half drawn and books overflowed the two oak book cases on either side of the room.  
“Um…” D’artagnan clucked his tongue, “Sorry for the mess.”  
It wasn’t messy at all really, besides the strewn books, messy wii cables and the occasionally discarded hoodie.  
Fucking small, fluffy hoodie’s. Athos’ subconscious thought. No. Brain, shut the fuck up. 

“Take a seat guys.” D’artagnan scratched the back of his head, ruffling his hair.  
I could do that for you. SHUT THE FUCK UP ATHOS.

“Awesome den you got ‘ere.” Porthos seemed genuinely delighted, immediately brightening D’artagnan’s mood.  
Freaking finally, I applaud you Porthos, Aramis thought.

“Thanks! Tea? Coffee? Um… I think I have Ribena?”

“Black coffee would do nicely. And yes, nice…place?” D’artagnan seemed awestruck that Athos had finally spoken, but his hope was heart-achingly crushed with Athos’ hesitancy.  
Aramis and Porthos cursed inwardly.  
Athos seemed to comprehend his utter idiocy as soon as the words left his mouth. His two roommates had never seen him dither so much, turning red, as he did now. He clawed to find words at D’artagnan’s wounded frown.

“I…er…I… I like a man who reads!” Athos blurted out. And consequently open and closed his mouth several times, seemly trying to suck the words back in, the colour rising from his neck, full-blown into his face.

D’artagnan’s eyes went wide with combined astonishment and enchantment. Aramis and Porthos shared a glance that said ‘Oh bloody hell, here we go.’  
Athos gave an anxious smile, timid (Athos, timid!), before coughing.  
“Yes. I, um, yes.”  
HELP ME. He telepathically screeched at Aramis and Porthos.

“Ribena sounds good.” Aramis smirked, “Yes. I am a child inside.”  
“Tea please. No sugar, I’m sweet enough already.” Porthos chimed in.  
“Yes.” D’artagnan was surprised with how easily he joined the banter, “That’s how your teeth are so fucking white and gleaming I suppose.”  
“I’m more savoury than the other types here.” He winked in reply.  
D’artagnan rolled his eyes , scooping up yesterday morning’s cereal bowl, and left through a door on the right of the room into the tiny kitchen, as Aramis let out an indignant “Oi!”.

After drinks were finished, D’artagnan stood to gather his things, Aramis swung his feet up onto where D’artagnan’s butt had been. D’artagnan couldn’t help but think how naturally they fit in here already.  
“Right.” He put his hands on his hips. “Who wants to help me pack.”

Athos looked like he wanted to climb into his coffee cup when Porthos and Aramis turned their evil gazes, condemning him.

“Guys, It’s cool. I was joking. Don’t give Athos another heart attack.” D’artagnan laughed. He turned and entered his room on the left, unintentionally leaving the door open just a crack. So he was just as surprised as Porthos and Aramis when he heard the door click shut behind him.  
Athos stood, as handsome and rugged as ever. They both swallowed.

Athos frowned. “Packing?”  
D’artagnan nodded a little too enthusiastically. Athos seemed to struggle again for a moment.

“I hope I haven’t seemed off, or rude, today.”  
“No!” D’artagnan tried to protest, but Athos held up a hand.  
“I apologise none the less.”

D’artagnan inhaled sharply as Athos took a stride towards him, already at the bed in the small en-suite room, and… reached past him. To pull D’artagnan’s Slazenger sports holdall towards him.  
“I think it’s best if you pack for a few days.” He stared far too intently into the bottom of the bag.  
“If you would like that is.” Athos flicked his intense cerulean gaze up to D’artagnan’s deep brown orbs.  
“Of course.” D’artagnan thinks he managed not to sound as desperately pleased as he felt.

Athos unscrunched and expertly packed whatever clothes D’artagnan chucked at him, laughing at D’artagnan’s Spiderman boxers.  
“Shut up!” D’artagnan fired back. “He’s the best super hero.”  
Athos looked baffled, “I do believe you are mistaken.”

“Oh yeah?” D’artagnan turned to face him, crossing his arms in challenge.  
“Batwoman. Totally underrated.”  
“No, no, no. We are so not having the DC/Marvel debate.”  
Athos outright laughed, “How can you— I literally just packed batman pyjama’s for you!”  
D’artagnan held his hands up, “Calm your tail feathers,” He strolled over the wicker wash basket in the corner and pulled out Spidey p.j. bottoms with a flourish.

“Can’t stick to one team. Hang your head in shame!” Athos laughed. Actually, properly laughed as D’artagnan’s bottom lip stuck out like he was a scolded puppy, and reached out to pat him on the head. 

(Little did he know Porthos and Aramis had sat up in surprise at the sound of Athos’ full blown mirth as it echoed through the walls.  
“Let’s hope they don’t start shagging—Ow!” Porthos smacked Aramis over the head. “What! The walls are thin enou—Ouch! Stop hitting me!")

 

Athos slid through the door, trying, and tremendously failing, to hide his glee. Swiftly D’artagnan followed, bag slung over his shoulder.  
“Right Then!” Aramis clapped his hands. “Looks like we’re off then."

Athos nodded as Porthos opened the door, finally dragging his gaze away from D’artagnan. The boy remained far too absorbed in whatever was stuck to his hoodie to notice Athos’ unbelievably extended staring. ‘Thank fuck’, Athos thought to himself, ‘Don’t get too attached. He’s taken.’ The thought of it was another twist in the gut, so Athos strode at top speed down the three stair cases in order to have a moment to collect himself.

‘This is getting ridiculous.’ Athos held his ground, fighting the urge to run away, as he propped himself up against the exit door. Why was this even happening? He couldn’t hold himself together, and it just served to make him angrier. He wasn’t even functional enough to be a normal, social person to the guy he had a fucking crush on. ‘Don’t be so pitiful. Stop panicking. They’ll see you, they’ll want to leave you.’ It was Anne’s voice scolding this time, and it was a rusty knife scraping against his skull, turning his brain into an uncooperative mush.  
He heard their footsteps on the stairs behind him.  
Swallow.  
Breathe in.  
Breathe out.  
In.  
Out.  
D’artagnan would be fine. Just like they said. Like Athos himself said. FUCK. Fuck. FUCK. Rochefort wouldn’t dare after all this time.

 

He straightened his back, laying a smirk on his lips.  
But before he could turn to face them, Athos felt a gentle hold on his elbow. A look down revealed D’artagnan quietly holding his arm in support. Hope welled in Athos’ chest, and with D’artagnan’s touch it magnified.  
“Athos?” He asked in hushed tones, more consideration than Athos would have thought possible settling on his face. Athos simply nodded in thanks, releasing a soft smile from the younger, caring man.  
D’artagnan pulled away a moment before the others reached them, making a mental note to really make sure Athos was okay at some point.

 

Porthos was on the phone, he realised at that point.

“Hahaha!” Porthos gave a hearty chuckle to the receiver. “Why not babe, why not?” he laughed again, “Sure. See you at 6 then. Love ya darling.”  
As Porthos ended the call and replaced his phone in his pocket, it occurred to D’artagnan that he hadn’t dwelled on whether Porthos dated or anything of the nature.  
“Flea’s coming for dinner.” He grinned. “My gal.” He winked at D’artagnan. 

Oh, right, Porthos is seemingly the only one in a relationship then. Unless…Athos had just chosen not to bring it up. D’artagnan felt a rising panic in that moment he didn’t quite understand. Then he groaned inwardly. Yes he understood. Of course he fucking did, nothing but Athos could succeed in occupying his mind. 

“What do you fancy for dinner then D’art?” Aramis asked as he buzzed and held open the door.  
So Aramis has picked up the nickname too then, eh?  
“What about Carbonara, ‘Mis?” Aramis’ widened his eyes, accompanied by an excited grin. This nickname thing could work both ways- D’artagnan was secretly proud of himself for that.

 

Athos looked sheepish as D’artagnan passed through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Ecole Nationale Supérieure d'Architecture de Paris-Belleville = National School of Architecture of Paris-Belleville.
> 
> Please keep commenting you guys, they keep me going :)


	9. Flea for Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D’artagnan suddenly put his face a lot closer to Aramis, voice deep. “There isn’t…the other night,” he gritted his teeth, “I may have been referring to... Athos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the absence everyone! I've been on holiday and hiked many-a mountain, but I'm back! And with the next installment. :)

It only just occurred to D’artagnan that he still had tape across his nose, five minutes before Flea was due to arrive.  
“Ah. Ah… No.” D’artagnan blinked as Aramis warned him, swatting his hand away from picking the tape off. “She won’t think anything of it.”  
Was this guy a bloody mind reader? 

D’artagnan sighed, reclining back into the squishy sofa, watching Porthos busying in the kitchen, singing low and quietly to the radio.  
Athos emerged from his room a moment later, smiling to himself at Porthos’ voice. Athos caught D’artagnan’s gaze, and in a split second of awkwardness, D’artagnan sat up bolt-straight as Athos crossed his arms, looking away. 

Use your eyes for giving not taking, D’artagnan cursed himself. Aramis exhaled, catching D’artagnan’s attention. He had to lean forward to catch what the man was saying, consequently guessing this was the idea, as Porthos and Athos continued to talk in the kitchen.  
“It’s alright you know, to relax. We’re not doing this just because of Rochefort.”  
D’artagnan swallowed.

“Well yes, it may have certainly helped Athos in damn-well coping with his feelings a lot faster than he would have done otherwise, but we like you D’art. We’re not going to turf you out as soon as this shit is over. If we didn’t like you in even the slightest, well, I wouldn’t have tried to sleep with you in the first place.” D’artagnan grinned, overwhelmed with gratitude, but had lost the ability to articulate at this point.  
“That’s off the table now, just to clarify,” Aramis began to gesture towards Athos, before stopping himself, alarmed with the realisation of what he’d done. 

Athos? D’artagnan pondered, what’s that got to do with him potentially sleeping with Ara—No way. He couldn’t mea—Athos? With him? D’artagnan? 

Aramis nodded, chuckling to himself, as he saw the look of oh-holy-shit in D’artagnan’s awe struck eyes.  
Unexpectedly, Aramis' face abruptly lose all humour, something totally unlike him, to the alarm of D’artagnan.  
“I’m going to sound like a hypocritical bitch now, as I’m the catholic famed for adultery. But this is Athos we’re talking about.”  
D’artagnan nodded resolutely listening, captivated by the seriousness of Aramis’ deep chocolate eyes, as he continued. “This… If there’s any chance of this ‘other guy’ you told me about--”

“What?” D’artagnan couldn’t help himself but interrupt this seemingly serious moment. His confusion was mirrored by Aramis’.  
“I don’t?” They simultaneously spoke. “You?”

D’artagnan suddenly put his face a lot closer to Aramis, voice deep. “There isn’t…the other night,” he gritted his teeth, “I may have been referring to... Athos.”  
“Oh!” Aramis swung back, exclaiming in delight, drawing the immediate attention of the others. Thankfully, as Athos opened his mouth in question, the doorbell chimed.

“When did you give Flea a key to the lift?” Athos' brow furrowed, not in annoyance, but worry at the apparent lack of memory.  
“Woops, ay, I may ‘ave forgotten to mention me and Aramis went an’ got her a key cut last Thursday…”  
Athos shrugged, putting the tea cloth he had picked up at some point down on the side, moving to answer the door. 

Flea clearly knew full well they would have forgotten,  
“Ay! Grumpy cat,” she ruffled Athos’ hair, “Got one for the front door as well, but I thought it best not to give ya too much of a heart attack.”    
Her tilted smile was just as beautiful as her half-dreadlocked blonde hair. D’artagnan also picked up on the similar accents between her and Porthos. Maybe they came from the same place? D’artagnan’s mind wandered briefly back to Porthos’ time on the street.

"This is the gorgeous little thing you all keep pining about." D'artagnan ignored the direct grin she gave Athos (who steadfastly ignored her, coupled with an 'I-will-kill-you-when-we're-alone' kind of glare.)

"D'artagnan," D'artagnan gave his most gracious smile, nodded, and stuck out his hand in greeting. Flea took it as she giggled, "ooo, I like a propa' gentleman."  
She winked vixen-ly at Porthos, who consequently tugged her into a tight embrace, causing everyone else in the room to roll their eyes and make their way to the dinning room table,  situated between the open plan kitchen and lounge. 

D'artagnan loved the table, it was an art statement in itself. It was a wide oak thing that was only sanded and shaped to the natural curves of the wood around the edges, making it un-uniformed and natural- but it still held a smooth, varnished finish. 

D'artagnan was certainly surprised when Athos pulled out a chair for him at one of the simple slate table mats. Oh god, he hoped it wasn't some formal thing and he mistook the meaning of dinner, i.e. it was going to be some elaborate Heston Blumenthal masterpiece. 

Aramis, without a doubt seeing the subtle panic in D'artagnan's eyes, leant forward across the table, "He's from an old-world family remember- chill, we're not going to force you into a penguin tail-coat." He winked, reclining back in his chair as Athos returned with a gigantic dish of sweet potato wedges, and D'artagnan couldn't help but lick his lips.

Athos seated himself at the end of the table, between Aramis and D'artagnan.  
Flea dived into a seat next to Aramis,  D'artagnan figured it was to have himself diagonal, and therefore in full view, of her. He was correct.  
"So D'artagnan-" her Cheshire cat grin directed at him this time, just in key with D'artagnan's loud stomach rumbling, he slammed his hand down on his stomach to try and silence the rumbles.

"Hungry are we?" She laughed.  
"We never got lunch!" Porthos moaned, chiming in as he returned with a whole black-peppered chicken.  
Flea turned her face up to Porthos, frowning, "that's not like you?"  
D'artagnan silently thanked Porthos' tact as he simply shrugged and resumed bringing in giant bowls of vegetables before sliding into a chair next to D'artagnan.

A good couple of hours passed as they chatted about how Flea and Porthos had been childhood friends reunited at university, and laughed stories of young Aramis' and Athos' antics. Somewhere in the middle of that, D'artagnan stuffed his face with lemon cheescake that Aramis had apparently baked earlier (before Athos retrieved the shop packages  from the kitchen.)  
"Why would you do that!?" Aramis wailed, "Now D'art's going to think I my future baked goods are a fraud!"  
"Because it proves how much of lazebox you are, despite seamlessly covering your tracks- or trying to, rather." Athos replied dryly, smirking with delight at his discovery on the decieving lawyer.  
"I," Aramis stood with declaration,  "Am not a lazebox, but a laze cylinder! I at least have the decency to roll myself to whichever destination!"

Aramis let out an indignified yelp as Flea pushed him onto the floor.  
"Go on then!" Porthos guffawed. After two forward rolls and somehow pencil-rolling to the sofa, he stood with a bow to the applause and giddy hysterics of the others (and Athos' muffled hum), and flopped onto the plush white chair.  
"Who's up for a game of poker?"  
"You said it brother!" Porthos wooped. "Prepare to meet your end!" Flea flung herself towards the coffee table where Aramis was already dishing out cards.

Athos groaned, hanging his head to rest on D'artagnan's shoulder across the corner of the table. They were both food-drunk enough, (and Athos had had two more glasses of red than anybody else) for the situation not to occur to them.  
"There, there," D'artagnan chuckled at the readily defeated Athos, patting his the man's head, "They can't be that good?"  
Athos laughed himself then, nuzzling at D'artagnan's neck, "Porthos has an inexplicable, Picasso-like talent, I lost nearly a grand to him once."  
"No way..." but D'artagnan was absorbed in carding through Athos' ruffled hair.  
They sat like that for a moment. Athos' soft breath against D'artagnan's collar bone.

"Athos! More wine!" Aramis suddenly shouted without looking over, then consequently kicked himself as he did, for ruining a rare cuddly Athos moment.  
In that second, D'artagnan stilled, and drank in his current position. Fuck.

Aramis and D'artagnan, however, were ludicrously surprised that Athos didn't flee as he realised too. He merely turned his head to look at Aramis; "I'm not your bar wench; it's in the fridge."

D'artagnan figured the enormously calm (for Athos) reaction, was because not everyone was paying attention to him. Porthos and Flea were far too much absorbed in eachother on the other sofa.

Athos, to D'artagnan's disappointment, got up then to flick Porthos' ear. "We have guests, Porthos."  
"Yes." He grinned in reply, "An' I'm on top of one of 'em."  
Flea batted him on the head, "Athos' is right you great hephalump, ge'roff."

After dolling out chips and cards, Aramis starts the game.

Whilst the others were preoccupied with Aramis' annoying flourishes and shockingly accurate English accent, D'artagnan lent over to Athos, only because they were sitting knee to knee, he told himself.  
Athos flicked those piercing eyes down at him. "Peeking at my cards are you D'artagnan?" He quipped, a smile dancing in those aqua iris'.

D'artagnan swallowed, suddenly embarrassed. 'Don't be stupid', he scolded himself, 'there's nothing wrong with not knowing.'  
'Except for the fact that he'll see you as a fucking inadequate six-yearold who he found drinking a J2O in a bar.'

"I don't know how to play poker." D'artagnan whispered instead.

Athos' mouth made an O shape in understanding.  
"The objective of poker is to win money by capturing the pot," Athos whispered, leaning flush against D'artagnan's side,  
"which contains bets made by players during the hand. A player wagers a bet in hopes that he has the best hand, or to give that impression, and thus convince his opponents to abandon their cards." Athos was clearly trying to dumb it down, but was not remotely patronising.  
"Just try and get as many consecutive cards in the same suit, or matching sets for now. Aim for the top 4 cards and an Ace," he winked, "Royal Straight Flush."

D'artagnan thanked all the deities in existance that the others were to preoccupied to notice Athos' hand on the floor next to D'artagnan, forarm brushing against his thigh as he whispered the rules to D'artagnan.  
He was also incredibly glad, for a rare moment in his life, that he didn't have self-operating dick.

D'artagnan was about to start breathting again when Athos accidently (on purpose?) brushed his nose against D'artagnan's nose.  
Neither of them mentioned it, but Flea narrowed her eyes as she looked up on her turn to see D'artagnan and Athos as bright red as eachother.

 

"I never asked where you came from, D'art?" Flea asked midway through the game.  
D'artagnan smiled, suddenly bashful,- fuck knows why.  
"Gascony." He choked out. "Gascony, my father has-- had a farm out there. I lived there with my parents since  I was born, but when my father died we sold the land and house. That was around a year ago now, my mother bought a small cottage. Then I moved here about six months ago, to be close to the university."

The others smiled sadly, knowingly, so D'artagnan guessed they'd all lost someone too, along the road.  
D'artagnan went on to answer Flea's abundance of questions; he talked about his architecture course, how he tried to do it once before, but didn't have enough money for the materials, about his pet dog, Rolo, back at the farm, about Constance... 

Before they realised, Aramis (the only one stupid enough to bet against Porthos) had lost €20 and Porthos was triumphly fist pumping the air, it was nearly one in the morning. 

After saying their farewells to Flea, Aramis, Athos and D'artagnan busied themselves by scooping up the chips Aramis had thrown everywhere,  as Porthos took Flea down to her car.

 

Porthos returned to find Aramis having his own mini karaoke session to the washing up bowl, so he snuck past in order to evade drying up.  
He rounded the corner towards the bathroom (he didn't leave the game at risk of Flea and Aramis ganging up on his cards) only to pretty much run over D'artagnan.  
The younger man was more than a foot smaller than him, so Porthos practically chest slammed him in tbe face.

"Fuck!" They let out simultaneously with the collision.  
Porthos started to panic when he saw the now deathly pale face looking up at him.  
"Shit. D'art, did I hurt you? Aramis will kill me if I extend the time you wear that nose bandage."

D'artagnan rubbed the bridge of his nose subconsciously, he'd obviously forgotten about it.  
"Er... er, no." He muttered, almost turnung green now.

"Then what...?" It occurred to Porthos then, that D'artagnan was using all of his might to stare at Porthos' face, refusing to look anywhere else.

If he'd thought about it for two seconds, Porthos would have remained tactful and just walked away till D'artagnan composed himself. But he didn't. He did exactly what D'artagnan was willing him not to do, and looked at the floor between their feet.

And there was, well, there was an STP packer.  
But D'artagnan, of course, was completely unaware that Porthos knew what this was.

So Porthos just stared at D'artagnan. Damn it. If it was anything else he would have picked it up and allowed the lad to scurry away with it burried deep within his hoodie pocket. However, Porthos decided with better judgement that this time, it would make it a whole lot worse.

Before Porthos gained enough brain function again, D'artagnan swiped up the packer and began to silently flap.

Porthos put a hand on D'artagnan's shoulder in an attempt to stop him from doing himself harm, but he simply pulled away.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." D'artagnan was majorly freaking out, eyes popping as he frantically whispered to Porthos. "Did anyone else see? Did anyone else see!? Fuck. I'm not, it's not-- I wasn't-- I know I just came out of the bathroom but, shit, fuck. Yes, it's a dick, but it's--"

Porthos grabbed both his shoulders this time, and D'artagnan ceased to function at all, mouth open, staring up at him with a look of sheer terror.

"I get it. It gets uncomfortable in yer boxers sometimes."

D'artagnan's mouth continued to hang open, eyes slightly glazed now.

"D'art? You with me?"

"But you... what?" He managed, still completely frozen.

"STP packers are the annoying ones right? Not as squishy?" Porthos half-joked.

D'artagnan continued to gawp.

"Before Flea," Porthos figured it would take D'artagnan a minute to regain speach control, "I dated a transfeminine person, so... I was pretty involved in the LGBTQ+ community- that's where I met Aramis, prancing round pride in 'is hot pants."

"A dick just fell out my hoodie pocket and your cool with it."  
Porthos laughed quietly at the statement D'artagnan just made, probably to himself more than anything. 

"Anyway, even if I hadn't have known, Aramis has weirder shit in his room- no judgement."

At that exact moment Aramis rounded the corner.  
"Porthos my love, do you have any washing u--"

He stopped. Aramis' eyes narrowed, screaming; are-you-discussing-my-sex-life? 

"Just discussing the amount of obscure star trek shit in you're room back at yer parents place. And all the millions of box sets that take up the dvd cupboard."

Aramis suddenly beamed.  
"Star trek. Is. The best."

"Star wars." Porthos countered.

The prior accident didn't matter to D'artagnan anymore. Porthos knew, and he was fine with it. He didn't see it that D'artagnan had been lying, nor did he suggest it was wrong in any way. Porthos knew- and he didn't realise it before, but a weight had been lifted from his smaller-than-average shoulders.

He realised Aramis and Porthos were waiting expectantly.  
"Sorry, Porthos, I'm a trekkie all round."

"For shame D'artagnan!" Athos had emerged from his room, drying his tousled hair with a towl- he must have an en suite too (jesus, how big is this apartment?)

"Really?" Exclaimed D'artagnan, reasonably surprised.

"Why does everyone say that!?" Athos turned to Porthos and Aramis, exasperated to no end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this one!
> 
> Oh!  
> All cats are alike grey in the dark> , you'll notice Athos and D'art have yet another pop culture subject to argue about, I wonder if your request will come to light ;) ;)
> 
> Thank you again for all the love and comments!


	10. Drowning Downstream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the boys are feeling vunerable, consumed by their fears at night.
> 
> (A bad chapter for Aramis.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Top notes  
> I actually had to re-write a massive chunk as it got way too dark too quickly, and I would definitely have to change to a mature rating.  
> It's still pretty dark though, so here are the warnings.
> 
> WARNING:  
> \- Quite extensive gender dysphoria (discussion of chest, height) (jawline/muscle mass brief discussion)  
> \--No genital dysphoria discussed.
> 
> \- Alcoholism and subtance abuse discussion.
> 
> \- Nightmares (Extreme violence, scary faces)

D'artagnan couldn't help but feel a bit guilty at least. It was the second night in a row that he'd unprecedentedly taken over Aramis' room- although D'artagnan had clean pants this time which was nice.  
But it seemed aparent that nobody, not even Porthos, could stand against an insistent Aramis.

("Honestly D'artagnan, I can offer up my own bed as I wish."

"I'm going to ignore how you somehow managed to make that sound unbelievably sexual, and ask where you're going to sleep?"

"Hush Porthos, it's ok, Flea knows about us."

"In all seriousness guys, I can't steal Aramis' bed again."

"Sure you can!"

"Why do you sound gleeful about that?"

"Because, dear Athos, if you hadn't noticed, Porthos has a gloriously comfy King-size which he has no need of."

"Because I'm so tall!"

"Honestly, you're not that tall."

"See! D'artagnan is the voice of reason!" 

"Don't rope me into this."

"You could always share with Athos, D'art?")

D'artagnan was simultaneously glad and disappointed when Athos rolled his eyes in a (failed) attempt to hide his outrageous blush and left to his room (also to hide the fact that he was half hard-but noone else needs to know that.)

Yet, D'artagnan couldn't help but wonder how that would play out. The sleeping together, not SLEEPING together, but D'artagnan would bet anything that Athos would enjoy being the little spoon for once.

That made D'artagnan think about his height.  
His river of thought started flowing rather rapidly, and he could only swim so fast.

Deep down he knew that the dysphoria wasn't going to go away, but on the surface atleast, he could forget about it.

In his late teenage years, around 16, he somehow managed to create this bubble. Alone, of course, and with the few mostly female friends he had, it was easy to think of himself as looking extremely manly- his height, his jaw line, voice- he could kid himself all was well.  
But then he started college, and worst of all, working out.  
When he got in the zone, studying and working out he loved it, but it was in those days he realised: Shit. I'm nothing compared to them.  
Not in the personality factor, but these were men.  
Tall, handsome, muscular.  
Everything he wasn't.

And not only that, D'artagnan felt like an extra asshole, because he knew that isn't what makes a man. When he talked to scrawny, small, dainty men, it never once diminished them in his eyes- but when he applied it to himself? That was a different story.

D'artagnan wasn't used to the dysphoria now as such, but had more love for himself. Maybe it was T? Maybe it was life experience, there's no way to know.

Then there were times like these.

D'artagnan lay on his back, refusing the urge to touch his chest. He still felt on the fence about top surgery, which he felt was ridiculous as he has always wanted a flat chest since starting his teens. Part of the problem was that he'd never necessarily felt 100% male, even still regarding himself as a kind of agender. It wasn't any kind of attachment to his chest- D'artagnan guessed it stemmed from being told for years by so many that he'd regret it. Seeds of doubt had grown in his mind.

D'artagnan suspired.  
It made him listlessly sad that he felt almost as crappy sometimes as he had at the very beginning.

Porthos, a man of great strength and size clearly never once thought any less of D'artagnan as a small guy. Neither did the others- clearly in their blatant attraction for him. (D'artagnan made himself blush. Don't be a cocky little shit.)

But, as ever, he couldn't shake it off- perhaps he never would. He sighed again at the depressing, unexplained loops he circled round in.

~~~~~~~

Porthos ran an agitated hand through his short curls. He needed to chill the fuck out.  
Porthos was never normally one to stress, especially when Aramis was bedside him, but as he perched on the edge of the huge bed watching his friend snoring, sprawled out to his hearts content, gosh did he worry.

He knew Flea was perfectly capable of defending herself against the majority of France's population, she likely didn't even need walking to her car.  
But Rochefort's men weren't the majority.  
Porthos had learnt that the hard way, as had Aramis.

Right now he wished he had walked Flea all the way into her house and locked the door behind them, to rest safely in her bed, to be held by her just as much as hold her.

It's only been half an hour. Chill the fuck down.  
Porthos was well practised at remaining positive for himself and his friends, but here, in the dark with Rochefort on the prowl, his mind was consumed with an inexplicable fear for both Flea and the oth--

Porthos' heart palpated in rhythm with his vibrating phone.  
Caller ID: Flea

"Babe?"  
Even himself he knew he sounded frantic.  
"Port, just callin' to tell you I got in alright."

There was a pause.

"I'm all locked in and safe. Got a hockey stick under my pillow and everythin'."

Porthos knew her humour was meant to calm him, but he noticed she was putting more reassurance in than usual.

"You seemed off today darlin', is everything going ok with Aramis' work?"

Aramis was one of the best lawyers in Paris, to be honest he will never know how Aramis manages to cram so much work in and still have time to go out and get drunk enough for a one night stand. In fact, it's a miracle he had such a lull in his cases this weekend, but undoubtedly, being head of such dramatic cases came with its dangers. Even Aramis' easy charm is no match for vendetta fuelled clients, especially those with money and connections.

"No babe, surprisingly not this time." Porthos was too tired to add in a quip, and this didn't escape Flea's notice, nothing barely did.

She waited.  
Porthos exhaled.

"Rochefort is up to his old tricks."  
Aramis grunted and shuffled a little in his sleep.

Porthos had been with Flea a small time before Rochefort had targeted him.  
"Why the fuck won't 'e leave Athos alone!?" Flea raged down the mobile.  
Porthos swallowed the anger he was too tired to dissipate.

"I don't know." He sighed, "I jus' don't bloody know."

~~~~~~

Athos rolled over again. Too hot with his sheets, too cold without them. So he gave up and left them tangled frustratingly around his legs.

Why was he thinking about wine?

Of all the things he should be thinking about.

It was three weeks ago he'd had unleashed that horrendous, purge driven rage at Porthos.  
The morning after he'd woken without the blinding headache, the desperate need for a shit, or the aching joints; he thought it was worth it.  
But he couldn't last.

Even Porthos agreed it was a terrible idea to cut wine out completely, considering it consituted as Athos' version of a balanced diet.

So for the first week he'd got by on one, maybe two at the most each day. He began to struggle again then on the Sunday, and privately decided to up the allowance to 3 glasses a night.  
Without a boubt Aramis and Porthos noticed, but Athos pretended, and they said nothing.  
Athos knew he was probably making it harder for himself by not following any regulated regime, but he couldn't bring himself to do that again. Not after the fucking useless "tolerance trainer" (a posh dickhead who stood to tell you that addiction would not help your career prospects) employeed, briefly (due to Athos punching the ignorant man in the face), by his mother.

Instead he struggled on his 3 glass maxium for the next two weeks.  
Until today.  
Everyone else had consumed 3, or more glasses, and Athos was embarrassed with himself for texting both Porthos and Aramis, demanding they do noy bring it up in front of D'artagnan. So, Athos slowly consumed.

Atleast, Athos told himself at the time, you're only pleasantly drunk- you don't want to shame yourself in front of D'artagnan.  
But now, lying awake, tossing and turning, all he could think about was the empty, gaping, chasm that could be filled with alcohol in the next five minutes.

~~~~~~

Aramis' lungs were being blended to dust under two broken ribs, bruising and the weight of a man practically standing on his spine. As he regained consciousness, he let out a pitiful grunt as his face grinded across the concrete, half congealed blood matting in his hair and leaving a metallic taste on his tongue.  
In the process of being hauled upright, it occured to Aramis he was in the wide archway under his uni flat.

He tried to wriggle away from the hand that was clutching at his collar, cutting off his windpipe.  
Aramis was 19 again, a lot slighter, and most definitely smaller than the animalistic thug that currently had his knee crushing into Aramis' groin.

Aramis, in a short moment of triunph spurred on by excruciating pain, managed to twist enough to hook his ankle around the back of the monsters knee, and dig his heal in with all his might. Before he could crash to the ground along with his attacker, however, something strange seemed to happen. The gravel in th concrete walls began to wriggle with an intencity that made Aramis' eyes hurt, until they began to clump together, forming terrible, lacerated faces that pulled themselves out of the archway walls.

It was them.

"No!" Aramis began screaming, thrashing to get away. The whole world seemed to point, stretching into a knife edge as someone grabbed his hair. They tore off the fleshy mask. 

Rochefort.

He grinned, tearing a handful of Aramis' beautiful, but now bloody, hair upwards, causing him to cry out, tears flooding his vision.  
"Watch. Him."

Those two grating whispers made Aramis feel as if the skin was being nibbled from his bones. There, in the middle of the archway was D'artagnan. Bleeding, beaten--

\--"ARAMIS! For the love of God!"  
He felt as if his eyes were being ripped from his skull in his sudden attempt to free himself from his dream.

"Porthos!" He cried, groping out blindly, sobbing like a child, "Porthos!"  
~~~~~~~

Athos' eyes snapped open. When did he fall asleep?  
A split second later he realised the source of waking distress, all thoughts of alcohol drowned out by the strangled yells coming from Porthos' room.

Athos was up and out of his room before he even realised, recognising now, Aramis' Spanish screams for salvation. 

Disorientated and clearly panicked by Aramis' shouts, D'artagnan stumbled into the hallway. 

Grabbing D'artagnan's hand, without being met by protest, Athos, on instinct brushed D'artgnan's knuckles with a kiss, pulling him towards Porthos' now yelling voice.

After glancing, terrified of what he'd find, to find the door and lock still intact, Athos pushed open the door to Porthos' bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the story hit a dark note... honestly, this isn't exactly what I imagined this fic to be. I hope i haven't killed my original intention too much.
> 
> I'm not too sure about this chapter, I'd like to hear your input!


	11. Wrap me in your arms warm coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sitting there, all bundled up in an old deep-blue pullover, mussed up hair, with hunched shoulders, hands tucked inside balled up sleeves- Athos looked fifteen years younger, sleepy, untried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello... long time no see... or read... whatever...
> 
> :)

Only the hypocritical part of d'artagnan's brain missed his usual Sunday morning routine. The same part that yearned for Gascony even after all that had happened there, even though his dreams lay in Paris.  
~~

Athos stared at the spaced out d'artagnan sitting opposite him at the kitchen island.  
The young lad was frowning at something, as though an interior debate was raging.

And thus, of course, Athos' brain proceeded to ponder into dangerous territory.  
What if D'artagnan wants to leave?  
What if he was scared by Aramis' reaction? (Although Athos only blamed himself for this).

He felt as if there were too many things upending in unison, causing a war to spurr up in his over-taxed and alcohol deprived brain.

In reality though, it was only a few perfectly combined issues to make Athos feel as though he was protecting his friends from the weight of the world- by having it crushing down on his soulders.  
"And yet you can't even manage a simple task such as that."  
Her voice was back, and it stripped him to the core.

It was only when D'artagnan, right before his face, gently called out "hey," that Athos realised belatedly that D'artagnan wasn't the only one to fall into a 5 minute brain-gorm.

Athos' mind was heretofore functioning, rendered speechless.  
So he sat, slouched (damn to decorum), staring into those dark rimmed eyes with amber rays and hues of fine cognac.  
~~

D'artagnan was altogether surprised when the ever genteel Athos simply ceased to function in this moment- not that D'artagnan could blame him given last night.  
It was such an open, rare moment that Athos just didn't care for the world around him. Too absorbed in wherever his thoughts were running to even give a shit about whether or not his heart was on his sleeve.

So after his initial attempt at grabbing Athos' attention D'artagnan simply appreciated the fact that Athos must trust him to just let his tiredness, his confusion, his absence, show so plainly now in the morning. Sitting there, all bundled up in an old deep-blue pullover, mussed up hair, with hunched over shoulders, hands tucked inside balled up sleeves- Athos looked fifteen years younger, sleepy, untried.

Even when Athos seemed to gaze directly into D'artagnan's eyes, D'artagnan merely gazed back taking in in full awe those eyes that yeild pale, clear, forget-me-not blue with refined strikes of silvered green.

But then the hot water clicked  
~~

Athos darted his eyes , somewhat sluggishly, away from D'artagnan- and those gloriously tempting irises.

Athos snapped the coffee pot out of it's bed in the cafetière. He needed the caffeine.

He could hear D'artagnan slowly padding over as he wondered whether it was natural for thoughts to be so much darker at night.  
Athos was trying harder this morning than most, to remember his worth in the sunlight.  
~~

Athos was going down a road, D'artagnan could tell, even from the way the man curled over his coffee, gazing into it's murky depths.

His worry for the older man overrode his ability to think about what his was doing- or so D'artagnan told himself later when he thought about it way too much. Overthinking- another trait of his according to Constance.

"Hey..."  
D'artagnan walked over to rest his face on Athos back, cheeks tickled by that soft, deep flecked blue jumper.  
It smelt good. Homely. Athos.

"I apologise..." D'artagnan felt the ridgid tension from touch melt out of Athos' shoulders.  
~~  
"For what!?" D'artagnan sounded incredulous at Athos' statement.

"...Dragging you into this."  
'Why are you going down this road?' Athos thought to himself.

"I want to be here you twat. I want to help."  
Came from the back of his jumper, making his spine tingle.

That most definitely made Athos feel better than he had in days, he thought, releasing a chuckle.  
Stubborn Gascon.

 

********

Aramis caught the glance that D'artagnan shot Athos.  
Whatever that means, Aramis scoffed to himself.

Okay... So maybe his entrance was bit of an over kill, but he sure as fuck wasn't going to mope back through the door when he felt shit enough as it was, without dragging down everyone else around him.

And come on, he brought Sunday morning cupcakes with him- the kind with shit tonnes of piped icing and whole raspberries inside (as well as a frappé for himself, because he knew Athos would have already made coffee- score to Aramis).

"Oh." D'artagnan made a cute puppy face that would have been irritating right now on anybody else.

Aramis felt his face fall before he could stop it. Crap. Why couldn't he be an emotional cyborg when he wanted like Athos, and not act like he'd just watched the notebook all the time.

"I just didn't realise you'd gone out." D'artagnan finished.  
Athos glared.  
Aramis couldn't count the ways Athos was probably internalizing some kind of protective guilt right now.

But Aramis was too flappy to deal with it right now- which proved how out of it Aramis was. Not that he'd admit that. Ever.

Thankfully Porthos walked out from his room, yawning, scratching his wasteband, to rescue the moment- or so Aramis thought.

"Dude, wayahya ootin cupcakes, it's half nine in the morning?" Porthos questioned through a yawn.

Aramis' mind was working four steps above overdrive.  
"I can eat what I fucking want okay?"

Yep. You snapped that Aramis. Way to go on the happiness-and-persona front.

...

*silence and beyond.*

...

"Well I don't know about you guys, but I'm gonna eat my cupcake at whatever--" D'artagnan made an obscene groan (judging by Athos' face),  
"--raspberry and white chocolate. Fuck yes."

Athos proceeded to go redder.

Everyone stared at D'artagnan, who briefly choked on the cupcake as he became aware of everyone's eyes on him. (Aramis so wanted to take a picture of Athos rn).

"The... they were--cup-- you weren't going to eat all these were you??!!"

D'artagnan sounded so terrified of what he'd just done that Aramis couldn't help but laugh.  
Porthos joined in, and by the end of it the three of them were in tears- Athos even had a side splitting grin going on and was making suspicious wheezing sounds.

 

Aramis wanted to kiss D'artagnan right now as he munched through his, and half of Porthos', Sunday muffin.


	12. Eyes off you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double shit. Athos floundered briefly, not occurring to him that strangers walking past were sceptically wondering why a fully-grown man was frantically waving his hands to himself whilst squatting down behind a car he’d spent far too much money on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter!!! YAy! I really enjoyed writing this one :) super cute! ;)

Athos felt more uneasy than he had in a long time. Fuck that. His anxiety was pounding through his head as if someone had locked his heart inside his skull, leaving it to bleed and hammer in its cage. He was pissed too. Pissed he’d let the past few days worth of events get to him. Athos hadn’t even realised until Aramis had pointed out that D’artagnan had a lecture on Monday morning and he didn’t exactly need a bodyguard in broad daylight in the centre of Paris. 

“Athos.” Aramis had whispered harshly, pulling Athos by the elbow into the lounge, an absent-minded D’artagnan slumped over one of Porthos’ books (Nation, he thinks it was called) in the kitchen. “The last thing he needs is babying. I know this terrifies you,” Athos glared, not wanting to here this in the slightest.  
Aramis continued, “Don’t pout at me you grown teenager. Infact,” he threw his hands in the air, “You’re both teenagers who won’t fucking talk to each other. Look, just drop him off back at his apartment, I can get some eyes on Rochefort if that’s what you really want?”  
“What I want is eyes on D’ar--” Athos began,

Shit. Aramis looked angry, “Don’t you dare ask me to creep on D’art!?”  
Athos couldn’t cope with all the emotions coursing through his veins at once. Guilt. Fear. Hope. Disappointment, the list went on.  
Aramis looked drained all of a sudden, pulling lost-puppy Athos into a hug.  
“Look,” he whispered, “You can’t just sit in silence waiting for a sign. And if you want eyes on him, go hang out with him yourself.” Athos grumbled, so Aramis counted, “Or perv him up from a distance!” Aramis was rewarded with a punch on the arm as he released Athos from a hug.  
And of course, Aramis should have expected as much, as he turned, there was D’artagnan staring wide-eyed at Athos, Athos-is-sad-hyper-sensing having activated. D’artagnan tilted his head at Athos in silent question as Aramis saluted and left for work, following the long gone Porthos.

Athos, never being one for words simply shook his head and made his way to D’artagnan, picking up the young man’s neatly packed bag off the floor as he did so. D’artagnan’s trusting gaze, part of Athos’ startled brain laughed at that, tracked Athos all the way till he stood at D’artagnan’s knees that were hitched up on the chair cross-bar.  
What Athos intended to happen, was for him to simply pull D’artagnan to his feet. What he hadn’t anticipated was D’artagnan ceasing to let go of his hand.  
Without looking (and without letting go of D’artagnan’s hand, he may hasten to add), Athos turned away, as to not let D’artagnan see the heat in his cheeks, and pulled the Gascon toward the door.

\------------------------  
As D’artagnan slammed the door to his once magnificent apartment lobby, and tugged on a dark-teal beanie and headed off towards the university.  
He wanted to kick himself. How could he miss the boys already, when he had literally just got out of Athos’ (mother-fucking) Aston Martin? 

D’artagnan dragged a hand down his face in self-exasperation, stopping briefly to tuck his skinny jeans into his boots.  
Aramis had seemingly returned to his former, charming self after “Breakfast” yesterday morning, D’artagnan couldn’t tell you why or how, but he was glad all the same. They’d kicked it in much earlier Sunday night as Aramis had work, and Porthos had placement this morning. It’s not like D’artagnan had expected anything to happen anyway (really!) but he couldn’t help feel disappointed when Monday morning rolled round and Athos hadn’t so much as mentioned the whole I-played-with-your-hair-and-you-let-me-hug-you thing.  
And now here D’artagnan was, the same as every Monday: On the way to his “History and theory of architecture” lecture. Yet all he could do was worry about Athos. It wouldn’t leave him alone. To top it all off, D’artagnan couldn’t let go of the idea, that despite everything, he’d end up back at square one. Alone. It’s easy to forget a promise, D’artagnan’s conscious cooed, well it seemed to be for other people. Easy to forget to pick up the phone. Aramis would be busy working, Porthos busy with lectures and placements, and Athos… well, just, busy D’artagnan supposed.  
No.  
I must be out of my mind! D’artagnan thought. You’re not going down that road. You’ve been there to many times before. Those three inseparables are here to stay, and you’re not going to crawl under a rock.  
If you can’t listen to yourself D’artagnan, listen to someone you trust, listen to Aramis. He told you that they wanted you there, and he meant it. And D’artagnan couldn’t help but get the impression that Aramis was right, about Athos. For a guy who had the outward emotion of an electric kettle, Athos sure as fuck had his heart on his sleeve right now.  
You don’t need a crystal ball to see their feelings about you, D’artagnan.  
D’artagnan shoved his hands into his pockets, as if he was shovelling for gold, and dragged his feet along to the lecture hall, kicking a few pebbles on the way.  
\--------------------------------------------  
Athos leaned against his car, around the corner from D’artagnan’s lecture hall (hopefully the way that D’artagnan would walk- Athos would never admit he was actually still giving himself room for a bail-out)- debating on whether—SHIT!  
The students were starting to file out of the large round building. And what brilliant idea did Athos have? Crouch down behind his car. Because yes, fucking greatest plan of the century.  
Double shit. Athos floundered briefly, not occurring to him that strangers walking past were sceptically wondering why a fully-grown man was frantically waving his hands to himself whilst squatting down behind a car he’d spent far too much money on.  
Fuck. He could just wait here? Yes. Yes, well shit, he’d have to now.  
\----------------------------------------------  
D’artagnan scrappled with a bunch of notes he regretted ripping out of his notebook in a fit of boredom that exceeded the usual. He nearly lost one to the wind as he made the way to his hobbit-hole of an apartment.  
D’artagnan stopped mid walk, pissing off the few people having to detour around him, and back tracked- sure he was mistaken.  
But no, there was Athos’ car, sitting on the Parisian high street, looking like a fucking car-manufacturer had apparated it there. D’artagnan frowned, venturing sound the car, hoping people didn’t think he was scoping it out to steal. He leant forward to look in the window when he nearly fell straight over a… Athos?  
The older man slowly peered up, “Looks like… you caught the rich jack-ass hiding behind his car?”  
A sight to behold. A sheepish Athos, pulling the complete Oh-shit-I’m-caught face of regretting teen. That expression, however, soon turned to a shit-eating grin as an absolutely hysterical D’artagnan helped the older man to his feet.  
“Do- hyou- wanna,” the huffing D’artagnan gestured for Athos to explain. Dear-lord, D’artgnan thought, bashful Athos was the cutest thing he’d ever seen, even when looking up at him.  
Athos frowned, “You see, I…”Athos clawed for an excuse before coming to the conclusion it would be simpler to tell the truth, “I chickened out when I saw your class mates out, and in a brief moment of panic, I hid… and couldn’t think of an acceptable excuse, so I stayed… down…there.” He trailed out. D’artagnan was beyond perplexed,  
“Dude, that looked more like the most awkward-filled moment of your life.” Athos huffed, giving his best evils considering his situation, D’artagnan ignored it to his despair; “What did you chicken out of?”

Athos froze.  
“I… coffee?”  
D’artagnan looked like Athos had just offered his whole inheritance. He took that as a yes.  
Neither of them moved for a moment, then D’artagnan began to pull Athos along by his shirt hem, calling back at Athos, “You could have just pretended you dropped something.”

Fuck.

All Athos’ confidence, not that he’d had any in the first place, seemed to disappear instantly replaced by their order of one black coffee and one mochaccino. He couldn’t fathom D’artagnan’s high need for chocolate (Nor Aramis’) or the way D’artagnan rendered his high-class social ability useless, or how he made Athos’ menial functions go out the window.

“Who’s your somebody else!?” Athos may as well have vomited out (at least it was a perfect demonstration of his previous point).

D’artagnan frowned. “I don’t think I under—oh. Why did Aramis accuse me of this too?”

“I wasn’t accusing yo--” Well, yeah Athos, you kind of are. Crap. Back down now, apologise, before you fuck this up even more. 

“The question stands, is there somebody else?” FUCK! Why the hell did you just go into Athos business mode? What the actual fuck Athos. But Athos couldn’t say any of these things out loud. He just sat, wide eyed, and quite frankly, terrified.  
D’artagnan however, grimaced, looking down into his mocha, then back into those piercing blue eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to be pissed off. Deep down, D’artagnan realised Athos’ fear of loneliness was just as monumental as his, even if not in the same way. All he could do was scoff at himself, the makings of a healthy relationship there D’artagnan. Followed by; don’t be such a hypocritical bitch, and, fuck! Relationship? Come on D’art, you know where this is going, now hurry up and react, like a normal human being before Athos freaks out even more than he already has.

“There isn’t anyone else.” D’artagnan leant forward as if to add sincerity, staring hard into Athos’ eyes.  
When all that happened was Athos’ shoulders relaxing, D’artagnan felt the ground was strong enough to hold the weight of his question: “Why did you think that?”  
Athos licked his lips and swallowed, as if mentally preparing himself.  
“That night, with you and Aramis, he informed me… the reason you couldn’t sleep with him is because there is somebody else.”

D’artagnan felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. So, ignoring all the fear and doubt pulling at his intestines, he leant forwards to take the frozen hands in front of him and said: “ The other guy’s you, you posh dick! I want to get coffee with you every day and - ok, so maybe not every day, that seems like a lot of effort and money,- but you’re coffee’s are brilliant. Shit! I’m honestly not just in it for the coffee! I don’t even like coffee that much, I just--”

Athos leant over the table.

Shit. Okay, D’artagnan thought, well Athos is one pro kisser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't wait to get into this more ;) ;)
> 
> 10 house points to anyone who can spot one of the of couple lyrics hidden in there... xx  
> Please point out any annoying mistakes, haven't really proof read this one.


	13. ~A note to the readers~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My god, it's been three years, how has that even happened? Does anyone even read Musketeers fics anymore? I hope so considering otherwise I'm out on my own here, surely that's not the case? I feel like Queen Anne over here.  
> Sorry, way too harsh.

Hey guys! Long time no see, I just wondered whether anyone is interested in me writing some more of this fic? I might do it anyway, but if there's anyone out there who wants it too it might prompt me further. Sorry for the horrendous gap of, literally years, I'm still here lurking, slightly older, but no more organised and all that.

19-2-18


	14. And yet more cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d seen glimpses of it before, but this was Athos happy. D’artagnan felt overwhelmed with affection toward the older man, pulling him into another kiss, cupping his face between his hands, really, really trying to convey just how much this moment meant to him.  
> \-----  
> “The twit can go on hold; thank you, okey-dokey, yes, and you’re just jealous of my facial hair!”  
> Aramis didn’t even think twice about shoving half the icing into his mouth before even breathing- and if that didn’t say something about his self-control. He sank back into the chair, picking at a rice-paper flower on one side of the cake, only now contemplating where it appeared from after having merrily munched his way half-way through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -And here we are! The first chapter in three years. It’s a bloody miracle we’re back here, it’s pretty unusual for me, or most people I think, to jump back into writing a fic left for so long, dwindling in your bookmarks.  
> -Sorry the update is later than I thought! Not a good way to start eh? If I thought writing this in high school was hard, continuing it at uni is crazy. I'm going to give myself two weeks for the next chapter!  
> \- It’s 1am and there is someone continually honking outside of my window + only half of it has been proof read, so my apologies.  
> \- This fic was written before the existence of Elodie and Sylvie etc., I’m going to keep it that way for the sake of the story, but I want it to be known I fucking love both of them (hence why I use Sylvie’s name somewhere in this chap

Athos pulled back from the kiss after a few moments, leaning back into his seat, red high on his cheekbones. D’artagnan looked beautiful. With a blush creeping up his neck he worried his bottom lip, bashful in their very public affection.

Dropping his head in a huff of laughter, Athos looked up at D’artagnan, hair falling in his eyes.

“Do you wanna...” D’artagnan gestured loosely toward the door.

“You don’t want to finish your coffee?” Athos raised an eyebrow in quiet humour.

D’artagnan stopped, frowning for a milli-second before picking up his mug and smirking into it, “Sure.” Placing the half empty mocha back on the table he slung his arm onto the back of the chair and sunk into it, “We could spend the next hour or so here, it’s very… pretty here.”

“Touché.” Athos countered, standing to down his coffee in one, slamming it back down with gusto and a shit-eating grin that made D’artagnan simultaneously suspicious and excited.

“If I may?” Athos mock-bowed and extended D’artagnan an arm to take. D’artagnan laughed as Athos pulled them to the shop door, partly in disbelief at Athos’ suddenly letting go of his usual contained demeanour for relaxed playfulness. He’d seen glimpses of it before, but this was Athos _happy_. D’artagnan felt overwhelmed with affection toward the older man, pulling him into another kiss, cupping his face between his hands, really, really trying to convey just how much this moment meant to him.

“D’artagnan…” Athos breathed, their faces just inches apart.

Voice suddenly gruff, he leant his forehead against D’artagnan’s, “We can go anywhere you want, right now. Let’s just disappear for a bit… and stop causing a hazard on the pavement.”

As if goading the D’artagnan’s response on, an elderly lady appeared behind Athos grunting something about there being horrendous traffic these days even on foot.

“The park?” D’artagnan blurted, the first quiet place coming to mind.

Athos’ lips quirked up at the simplicity of it, of course he wanted to be near to nature, even if the spur of the moment decision was an unconscious one.

As the two wound through Parisian streets, D’artagnan began to actually process what was happening, now that Athos was a warm, solid presence at his side. This was Athos. Holding his _hand_. Was he suddenly mentally screeching and chanting ‘Go! Go D’artagnan! You scored to the maximum mother-fucker!’? Maybe, who could tell. But this was the most passionate, kind, intelligent man he had ever met. And he was a man who returned his feelings. The niggling worries of, he doesn’t know you’re _trans,_ hadn’t even begun to fog his mind yet he was so high. Perhaps part of it was due to Athos’ calming voice asking him about where he normally likes to explore, or the chuff of a held back laugh as he leant down to kiss the side of a clearly-not-listening D’artagnan’s head. Either way he was floating like a kite and could not stop staring at the man beside him.

\-----------------------------------------------

Aramis finished finally locked his phone, apologising to numerous by-passers for randomly stopping in a bustling attorney’s corridor. Stepping towards his office, Caramel Latte in hand, he heard Clarissa, the ever-charming paralegal, call out to him.

“Aramis! Good you’re back! Mister no-I-didn’t-bribe-the-hooker is on the phone; the up to date Jackson file is on your desk; Anne wants me to take the Versailles Corporation research off your hands- do you need me in the client meeting? And… you have coffee crème in your moustache.”

She snorted at the last statement, already making her way towards her desk.

Aramis swiped his mouth, frowning at the back of his hand to assess whether she was making him look (Nope, there was enough that he must have had a full-on milk-stache for the entire length of the corridor). Realising he was yet to reply, he called out, “The twit can go on hold; thank you, okey-dokey, yes, and you’re just jealous of my facial hair!” before pulling the door to his office shut.

Six and a half hours left and he shall be consuming a metric tonne of food in his jogging bottoms. It’s a Monday, he deserves it.

Dumping his bag next to his desk, he reached for the file, only now seeing the giant chocolate orange cupcake, from the same trade-mark shop (Sylvie’s Specials) as the ones he bought for the boys only yesterday. It was like a small sun-ray bore down into his office for a few seconds with a chorus of “Hallelujah!” surrounding the gift of goodness sitting atop the papers. Aramis didn’t even think twice about shoving half the icing into his mouth before even breathing- and if that didn’t say something about his self-control. He sank back into the chair, picking at a rice-paper flower on one side of the cake, only now contemplating where it appeared from after having merrily munched his way half-way through it.

Ah. Isabelle from Finances. He and the young woman had been flirting back and forth for a while. She was sweet; Aramis made a mental note to tell Porthos about the present later on.

The phone on the desk started blinking at him. Mister no-I-didn’t-bribe-the-hooker had been left on hold for a good twenty minutes, whoops, what a shame.

\----------------------------------------------------

Having been in the library for most of the afternoon, Porthos was glad to finally get out in the open and stretch his legs. The temptation had been there to walk across the city to Aramis’ work to pick him up, taking slight glee in knowing he was one of the few people who knew how to get Aramis to throw a strop. Although, Porthos had learnt his lesson from the last time he’d had to piggy-bag Aramis home from work as he’d avidly argued that being picked up from work actually constituted as being picked-up from work.

Parking his car a few streets away (the nearest non-red zone), Porthos sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The day had left him feeling lighter than all the craziness of the weekend, having set them all back into their normal routine. Not that he was one to crave it, but some normalcy was nice when there remained an underlying bubble of tension in everyone’s chest. Hell, he’d known D’artagnan less than a week, they all had really apart from Athos’ chance run-ins. In all honesty, he was more surprised by Athos’ immediate attachment to the young man than his own. Porthos had always been a good judge of character, maybe it was something he picked up on growing up in a world exposed to all kinds of shady-ass characters. He’d just been drawn to the emphatic, proud but caring and considerate fellow. A character similar to his own Aramis would put it. Flea liked him too, that was always a good indicator as any.

Porthos snapped out of his thoughts to a rat-a-tat-tatting on the window and the sideways face of a grinning Aramis, satchel hanging across his tilted shoulders.

“No piggy-back this fine evening?”

“I will drive off without you.”

\-----------------------------------------------------

Porthos’ shoulders seemed more relaxed today, brow less creased. That was good, Aramis smiled to himself, his own mood easing even further from the successful day. He continued observing as his friend flicked on the indicator, turning at the next traffic light.

 -------------------------------------------------------

Aramis seemed more like his bouncy self as he reached up to get a couple of plates from the kitchen cupboard. And more chilled-out too, considering the nightmares were only a couple of nights ago. Porthos watched his friend humming and pottering around in sweats (size indicating Aramis had paid no mind they were actually probably Porthos’).

They decided to commandeer the sofa rather than the table, because who needs to be civil when you can be closer to the T.V.? And began to dig into what was probably enough chilli and nachos to feed a garrison.

Aramis suddenly paused in his eating, a brief second of concern flickering over his features. Porthos raised an eyebrow in question.

“Are Athos and D’artagnan out for dinner?”

Porthos snorted.

“Yeah. On a date, they finally decided to communicate like human people. Got a text earlier.”

Aramis gave a semi-interested grunt, contented crunching resuming, absorbing back into the television.

 ------------------------------------------------------

After washing-up saw them back on the sofa, yawning with a joint effort to keep their eyes open. God, they were old men.

“I got a cupcake today.”

“hm?”

“Someone left a one of those chocolate orange cupcakes from Sylvie’s Specials on my desk at lunch- you know, the ones with the daisies on? It was SO fucking good. I think it was from Isabelle.”

“Is that yoga girl?”

“No! Porthos, you scoundrel!... That’s Sophie. Isabelle’s from Finance.”

 “You better hope all these lovers don’t cross paths any time soon.”

“Hardly lovers Porthos, mutual admirers I would say.”

Porthos chuckled. “In all serious Aramis, the sweet’eart sounds like she means business here. Maybe you should buy her a conciliatory cupcake back and let her down gently if it’s not going anywhere.”

Aramis nodded, sigh deflating a little bit.

“You’re right. I’m not actually that big of a player you know.”

Porthos patted him on the back, smirking, “I know that. You’re just a silver-tongued flirt is all.”

“You know it baby.”

 


	15. Ducks shouldn't eat bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A wild Athos, emerges from hermit-dom and sexually frustrated hibernation, ready to stalk through the wilderness like the true grumpy cat he his” as Aramis has so kindly put it.
> 
> Athos and D'artagnan go on a cute date! Lot's of fluff...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Athos and D’artagnan were doing whilst Porthos and Aramis were chilling out in the last chapter.  
> Essentially Fluff. And a bit of angst.  
> Warning:  
> \- very brief mention of alcoholism, hardly there.  
> \- breathing problems in binder. Pretty indepth discussion of binding pain. The word ‘chest’ is used, but only in the context of your whole torso, as in chest cavity.
> 
> Hello, hello, hello everyone! Back again! Please enjoy my lovelies <3  
> p.s. this isn't beta'd or anything so I hope grammar and spelling isn't too grating.

In light of what had happened, Athos supposed he wasn’t that surprised after all. Granted, he hadn’t dated in a while, but that was most definitely because no one had interested him particularly, and not because of _her._ He thought he did alright personally, went on a date around the year and a half after mark _(“A wild Athos, emerges from hermit-dom and sexually frustrated hibernation, ready to stalk through the wilderness like the true grumpy cat he his”_ as Aramis has so kindly put it), discounting the rather awkward and unsuccessful nature of said date. He just couldn’t seem to shake the Athos-business-voice for the first six months. He’d tried just having casual relationships after that, coinciding with the drinking getting worse, pretty much writing off the next two years after that. Now that was something he was torn between never wanting to relive again and wanting to go and buy up a whole liquor store. The reality was he’d never put Aramis and Porthos through that again, or D’artagnan. God, the feeling of heaviness returned as Athos was reminded of what he was keeping from the man in front of him (who was currently hurling seeds at ducks, apparently bread is atrocious for them, who would have thought? Mon Dieu this man was simultaneously hot and adorable, Athos had no coping mechanism for this.)

“Take a picture! It’ll last longer!” D’artagnan hollered, grin sliding onto his features as he turned to see Athos staring absentmindedly, before turning back to crouching and quacking at some approaching ducklings.

He should have been balking at the idea of dating the man in front of him, but he simply didn’t care. There was something so charming and thoughtful about him, he just slid right into place alongside the inseparables, as though three had always been four. That had been another stick in the dating machine Athos supposed. Of the few in Athos’ dating pool (more like a puddle but who needs to know) who actually met Aramis and Porthos, no one had quite understood that they weren’t just friends, they were Athos’ family. The two breathed life into Athos when everything else in the world turned into black mist, tangling him up and suffocating him.

Athos stood from the bench he was perched on, swallowing the sudden influx of tangled emotion down as he approached D’artagnan. Just as he reached out to touch his elbow, it all happened very quickly.

D’artagnan dropped the empty plastic bag of seeds onto the pond. Leaning forwards to pick it up, his foot shunted and slid through the mud, propelling him forwards into a small crowd of screeching ducks. As his right leg plunged into the water, Athos missed his elbow and watched in abject horror as the younger man’s legs somehow ended up in the air- so stupidly, in panic he grabbed an ankle, which helped in absolutely no shape or form as D’artagnan successfully face-planted the water.

Spluttering, coughing up both water and seeds, D’artagnan’s head bobbed up from the water. Athos dumbfoundedly still clutching his ankle.

“Good save, Athos.”

Athos frowned, but couldn’t ignore his mouth turning up at the corners as he pulled some pond-weed from D’artagnan’s hair. Splashing his way out of the water, blush as red as anything, D’artagnan raised his chin defiantly, “Got the bag.”

“Think of all the animals you saved.”

Athos had to hold back his laughter as D’artagnan stalked off towards the path.

As Athos caught up to him, he put an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders, not caring if it soaked through his coat sleeve. D’artagnan didn’t look up.

“Hey, are you well?” Athos gently placed a finger under D’artagnan’s chin to tilt his head up and give him a once over.

“I mean, I’m pretty chilly…”

Athos was beginning to learn that this was D’artagnan’s I’m-not-so-innocent-after-all face. But before he could clock on, D’artagnan had turned and shoved his freezing-cold jumper arms around Athos’ waist and under his shirt, shaking his sopping wet hair into Athos’ face.

Athos did not squawk. And he definitely did not nearly fall as he sprinted to get away from someone who was surely too small to achieve that much speed.

~~

D’artagnan flagged suddenly, hissing as he pressed a hand to his ribs. He’d been so close to running Athos down, dammit. But of course, he was wearing his binder, his stupid fucking binder. D’artagnan gritted his teeth, breath hitching as the now wet material clung to him even tighter, seeking to suck his rib cage into his lungs. This was _not_ a good idea. The ground beneath him was beginning to sway. He just needed… he just needed some air. Shoving his hands up underneath his shirt, D’artagnan tried to shimmy his hands between his ribs and binder, forcing the constricting material away.

He jumped as a warm hand clasped his shoulder. Through the black spots in his vision he could make out the face of Athos. God that man is gorgeous. He heard a soft, yet uneasy, chuckle through the pounding in his ears as he realised he’d said that outloud.

“D’artagnan. D’artagnan?”

 Athos was looking really worried now, he needed to pull his shit together!

“If you have asthma, now would be a good time to tell me.” He whispered hoarsely.

“Just… Gimme… a minute…” D’artagnan managed to mumble out.

So much for a smooth first date.

~~

Athos bumped his knee against D’artagnan’s and tilted his head in question; the meek smile he received in return prompted him to continue rubbing circles onto D’artagnan’s back.

“I’ll be alright, honestly.” He said finally, “I think I just bumped my ribs more than I realised when I hit the pond floor. Adrenaline wore off.”

He shrugged, wincing as he regretted the action.

“Want me to take a look?”

“No!” D’artagnan jumped, cringing internally at how his reaction must come across, preparing for some line of inquiry. But Athos simply raised his eyebrow, followed by a kiss to the temple and an arm pulling D’artagnan into his shoulder. It felt nice to be held like this with no awkwardness or expectation, D’artagnan thought. After a minute Athos whispered,

“We should probably get you a change of clothes and warm you up. You look like a sad puppy.”

D’artagnan stuck his tongue out and took Athos’ hand to stand up.

 

After making it back to D’artagnan’s apartment, Athos ushered him into his room, assuring him he could manage how to work out the kettle and find the biscuit tin.

D’artagnan double checked the door was closed properly and began to strip, angling away from the mirror. He coughed sharply with the intake of air from peeling his damp binder off over his head. With a groan he stretched his arms over his head, carefully breathing in and popping his spine and shoulders. Flopping back on the bed he wanted to groan in relief. He’d almost forgotten about this level of pain, but now he was lying down his ribs were so unbelievably tender.

He’d been in his binder pretty much the whole weekend seeing as he was at Athos, Aramis and Porthos’, when he usually didn’t in his apartment, and he’d even accidently dozed off in it a good few times. He’d been out in public all day, and up until last week he’d been wearing a lot of baggy hoodies and a looser binder, so his body wasn't prepared for the sudden change.

Fuck.

And it’s not like he can even explain to people why. Yes, hello, my ribs kill because I’ve compressed them for hours on end trying to flatten organs and tissue into not existing whilst simultaneously reducing my lung capacity to half and feeling like my shoulders and spine are being squeezed and contorted continually- oh wait, they are.

D’artagnan groaned in frustration, jumping to a soft knock at the door.

He scrambled to cover himself, but the door didn’t unceremoniously swing open, instead Athos’ deep voice called softly from behind it, “Do you need anything?”

Top surgery, D’artagnan wanted to sob, “I’m alright, just bruised a bit I think. Be out in a minute.”

A pause.

“Okay.”

Another pause.

“Do you want me to call Aramis?”

“No, I’ll be alright. But thank you.”

“Would you rather tea or coffee?” D’artagnan smiled to himself at Athos’ easy acceptance.

“Tea would be great thanks.”

D’artagnan climbed out of the bed and started to rummage around his room, avoiding the soggy pile of discarded clothes on the floor. He took a deep breath. Binding would not do him any good right now. He knew it, he knew it, he knew it. So instead he pulled a sports top from his chest of drawers, with a loose t-shirt and even looser hoodie, his soft blue one that he knew for a fact covered everything, even if his brain was panicking and telling him to not leave the room.

With clean pants, fluffy socks and new trepidation D’artagnan opened his door a crack. There was Athos, looking like he belonged there, nestled in amongst D’artagnan’s various jumpers, notepads and video game controllers, engrossed in the dog-eared copy of ‘Gone Girl’ that had been sat on the coffee table. He looked completely relaxed, rare for him- something D’artagnan had already picked up on- munching his way through a custard cream. D’artagnan beamed with warmth, he’d managed to find someone who was both rugged and mysterious, yet as cute as fuck. A combination he hadn’t previously known to exist.

A cough from a blushing Athos ( _good lord_ ) brought D’artagnan back to the moment. Of him. Peeking round the door.

Fuck it, he thought. Discretion is a ship that has sailed my friend.

He sauntered over to where Athos was sat.

“May I help you?” He looked up at D’artagnan, still blushing.

D’artagnan quirked his mouth and shrugged, “Just admiring the beautiful man in my apartment.”

He leant down to kiss Athos, who had somehow flushed an even deeper red. It was soft, gentle.

He had missed this, Athos thought as he curled his hand into D’artagnan’s hair at the back of his head. After a moment, D’artagnan plopped down onto the little puffy white stall next to him.

“Dammit, I wish I had a sofa. Shall I go and find some take out menus? I thought we could go out, but I don’t really feel like it after my… unprecedented swim.” D’artagnan deadpanned.

Athos snorted in response.

He felt so at ease with the sound of D’artagnan pottering around in the background, he couldn’t believe it. He thought back to the last time he’d been here. _“nice…place?”_ The awful memory bounced around his skull. Why was he so socially inept for someone who was practically raised in dinner parties and benefits? Actually, that’s probably the reason, coupled with parents as emotional as a rusty kettle, he was so incapable of coming across as a normal, sincere human being.

 _“I…er…I… I like a man who reads!”_ Rang around his head next. He frowned into his cup of tea at the memory. He’d heard her voice that day too. For the first time in a long time. She felt like a shard of ice ripping through his conscious. She’d told him he was pitiful.

He swilled the tea around.

~~

D’artagnan triumphantly pulled the take-away menus from the kitchen draw, only to turn and see Athos hunched over where he sat. He wore the same vacant expression he’d had that day in the lobby. He walked over, gently threading his fingers into Athos’ hair to massage his scalp.

“Hey you,” he said in hushed tones, “Anything you want to talk about?”

Athos thought for a minute, weighing up his options.

“Just… Anxious I suppose is the word for it. Rochefort playing on my mind, dredging up things I’d rather forget.”

D’artagnan hummed in reassurance for Athos to go on. But he suddenly changed his mind. He didn’t want to cast a shadow over the evening. D’artagnan sensed the decision and thankfully changed the subject.

“How about Chinese?... And, how about I show you how Star Trek is, in fact, superior to Star Wars?”

Athos rolled his eyes, “I sincerely doubt you’ll succeed in your endeavours, but it sounds good to me.”

~~

Having eaten way more than a two people share of Chinese food, D’artagnan groaned and flopped back against the headboard. They’d commandeered the bed and laptop after agreeing that it would be far more comfortable and cosier than sitting on separate puffy chairs eating from the coffee table.

He glanced over at Athos whose eyes had slid shut at some point.

“Hey!”

Athos grunted and tried to recede as D’artagnan indignantly poked him in the stomach.

“No.” He groaned, “Not the baby!”

D’artagnan burst into laughter in disbelief. Athos cracked an eye open, “Surely the fact that I am secretly a comic genius is obvious by now?” D’artagnan shoved him playfully.

“Athos. You have the driest sense of humour I have ever known, and it is literally the best thing I have ever heard or seen.”

Athos looked up at D’artagnan from where he had sunk down on the bed, to see a fondness there he hadn’t expected. He surged up to meet D’artagnan’s lips just as the he tipped his head downwards.

The kiss grew more heated, but there was a mutual softness in the air that indicated neither wanted to rush anytime soon. So, they stayed like that, simply with their arms around each other, kissing with Star Trek steadfastly being ignored in the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who needs to write research papers due very soon when you can write this instead??? (help me)


	16. Well I didn't tell anyone, but a bird flew by

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos had started to relax along with the others, but something had begun to twinge in the back of his mind. If Porthos had learnt anything from his time on the streets, it was to always trust your gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is it 3.30am?? Whatttt? I don't know how that happened...  
> But here we are!  
> There's so many readers now and it makes me feel warm and fuzzy, your comments are amazing. Keep 'em coming. <3  
> ~~  
> p.s. I haven't proof read this at all yet because, as I said, it's 3.30 in the morning.

Porthos was on edge to say the least. He closed the page of triangular doodles and slid it along with its pen, into his bag, cursing at the fact he’d have to go over the presentation again online. He’d got as far as ‘Social Class mobility in modern France: Changing structure and constant progress’ before his mind had trailed off into distant possibilities. He was a practical guy, not one to normally dwell on what-ifs? Knowing by now it got you nowhere. But as he made his way out of the lecture hall, his mind began to wander yet again.

It had been over a month since Rochefort had interrupted Athos and D’artagnan at that bar, and just over two weeks since Rochefort confronted D’art in the street. Yet nothing else had occurred on the matter.

Porthos had started to relax along with the others, but something had begun to twinge in the back of his mind. If Porthos had learnt anything from his time on the streets, it was to always trust your gut. Two weeks was more than enough time to come up with a fool-proof (not necessarily Athos-proof mind you) plan. He took a deep breathe, fists clenching with the flurry of memories of threats the three of them had received when Rochefort first targeted him. Despite having not yet met his two best friends, Porthos only succeeded in riling himself up further as his mind conjured up images of a beaten-up and un-conscious Aramis. He knew there was some old family feud, and that it had something to do with the murder of Thomas. They’d all seen it in the papers then, even without knowing it was about Athos at the time. “De Winter Strikes again”. “De La Fere’s accused of embezzlement: Rochefort’s split from company”. “Hired Assasin?”

It had haunted Athos beyond belief, the betrayal of both his family and wife, the murder of his brother. Porthos was fucking thankful Athos had started to work on the drinking a few months ago, if he’s honest, he’s not sure that he would have survived another hit from Rochefort after years. The attack would have come in another form even if D’artagnan wasn’t being used as the battering ram, although to be frank, maybe Rochefort had been waiting in the dark for this very precise opportunity. Porthos wouldn’t put it past the sick bastard to know that trust was a big thing for Athos. Too many people had fucked over the incomparable man he was proud to call one of his best friends, one of his brothers.

Porthos shook his head, making his way through the throngs of students to the library.

~~

Growling in frustration, Porthos slammed his textbook shut, slumping back in his chair. He levelled the people frowning at the unprecedented noise with a stare that said I’m-irritated-as-fuck-don’t-try-me and relaxed minutely as glares hurriedly turned to awkward glances away and high-pitched coughs. He’d already been here thirty-five minutes and achieved nothing. He needed to do something to get rid of all his excess stress and apprehension. Unlocking his phone, he scrolled through his contacts and hit call on Treville’s name. Sliding out of his chair, he escaped the stifling library, café and fresh air in mind.

\---------------------------------------------------------------- 

Aramis huffed out a sigh and tipped his head back to the elevator ceiling.

“My God man, would you stop wriggling around? It’s like you have worms.”

Aramis narrowed his eyes at Richelieu, but dramatically ceased to wiggle.

“Thanks for that.” he deadpanned, sticking his tongue out at the back of the old man’s head as he stalked formidably from the elevator.

Stepping out onto the bustling as ever financial floor, Aramis tried to add some buoyancy to his step. He’s got this. He was formidable. Suave, graceful, gentlemanly, a romantic. He was Aramis. Self-proclaimed sex-god.

Oh man, she was going to kill him. Or cry. Or Clarissa would kill him. Or Anne would somehow find out with her omnipotent magical powers of magic and rip his fucking head off.

He shook his head, at least he got a free cupcake.

Walking into the open door of Isabelle’s shared office, he coughed awkwardly and rocked back and forth on his feet. At least three people raised their eyebrows.

“Aramis!” Isabelle squeaked, reddening, “What can I- WE- do for you?”

“A moment of your time please, Isabelle?” Aramis inclined his head.

A few office giggles and a not very discrete “Shut up!” hissed by Isabelle to her co-workers.

Once they made it into the empty staff-room, Aramis leaned casually (at least in his head) against the countertop.

“So… the cupca-”

“Aramis! Listen, I am very flattered honestly, and if you had asked a few weeks earlier I would have 100% said yes. But- the thing is, I well- oh man, I just admitted I had a huge crush on you! Who am I kidding it was so obvious,” She let out a sweet, goofy laugh but ploughed on at Aramis’ aborted attempts at a sentence; “But I’m seeing someone. Their name’s Sam. They’re a freelance photographer.”

Aramis opened his mouth, highly aware that he should be speaking as he gawped at Isabelle. This isn’t what he’d rehearsed for in his head. For once in he was about as smooth as crunchy peanut butter.

Isabelle clearly thought he was taking rejection badly (Aramis, rejection. Two words he didn’t often place together in his head).

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, honestly,” He finally (finally! Praise the Lord!) managed to find some semblance of function, “So… the cupcake on my desk wasn’t from you then?”

Isabelle tilted her head in confusion.

“Wha- no. No, sorry, it wasn’t.”

There was a slightly bewildered pause from both parties.

“I can ask around if you want?”

Aramis smiled graciously as the easy atmosphere between them began to grow again.

“That would be great thanks.”

“… Finances are going out for a karaoke night on Friday if you’re up for a wild one? We were thinking of asking around the other departments, see who was free.”

“Sounds good to me, I’ll send a message your way with who else upstairs can come.” Aramis smiled, suddenly bashful.

As they nodded goodbye and he made his way to the elevator, Aramis began to wonder who could have possibly left him the cupcake.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Athos frowned at his last text message:

Mis’: Yo. Cupcake (¬‿¬)?

He tapped out a reply.

Me: As in...?

Mis’: (一_一) It wasn’t you then?

Me: What wasn’t me?

Mis’: I got a mystery cupcake the other day. Don’t know who it was from???

Me: Well don’t eat it if you don’t know who it’s from!

Mis’: …

Me: You ate it, didn’t you?

Mis’: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Athos rolled his eyes and put it back down on his desk. Rolling his shoulders, he stood, surprised it was already two in the afternoon. He was undeniably stressed, he was working on his first commission in a while, a mountain scene of the Alps. He knew it was just because he’d been staring at the canvas for two long but fuck he could do with a drink.

Pouring himself a glass of white, he put all of his control into sipping it, stepping over to the window, enjoying the breeze that buffeted the chiffon curtains around.

He thought about going for a second glass.

He picked up his phone again, thumb hovering above D’artagnan’s contact. He pondered on whether it was entirely healthy to call D’artagnan every time his brain screamed for a drink and sat it back down, twizzling it around from one corner.

What would D’artagnan say to you? He mused instead. Probably: have you had lunch yet?

Athos started to get sandwich bits out of the fridge.

What would Aramis say?: have you had any _actual_ liquid today?

He retrieved a glass from the cupboard and turned on the tap.

What would Porthos say?: have you actually taken five seconds of break today?

Athos made his way over to the sofa, plate and glass in hand, and picked up D’artagnan’s copy of ‘Gone Girl’ he’d nabbed from his apartment last week.

More contrast! That’s what the painting needed.

\---------------------------------------------------------------- 

Aramis brooded over who could have sent the blasted cupcake on the way back to his office. Maybe an intern?

He stopped in the doorway.

On his desk sat a bunch of his favourite flowers from Forget-Me-Not. Peonies. Huh. Next to which sat a bottle of his usual cologne.

Someone was very particular about knowing their scents. Aramis was kind of flattered but, this was creepy. What was he meant to do with this?

After a minute of searching for some kind of label or card, Aramis stuck his head out of the door.

Clarissa screeched as he almost headbutted her.

“Fuck! Sorry!”

She swatted him over the head, “I’m a para-legal, not a cushion!”

Aramis beamed at her.

“Really? What is it you want now. And no, I can’t photocopy the Tate and Bourbon files for you, you have arms, do it yourself.”

 Aramis pouted, then braced himself for the answer to his next question, “Do you know who left the gifts on my desk?”

Clarissa’s frown was all the answer she needed. Marching into his office, Aramis trailed after her.

“Huh. I didn’t even know they were left he- seesh! That’s an expensive bottle of cologne!” “I know.” Aramis grumbled.

“Hey!”  she swatted him again, “Aren’t you grateful.”

“… Don’t you think it’s slightly creepy though? There’s no note, and they somehow knew my _favourite_ flowers, from my _favourite_ shop, and the cologne I _wear_. And I’d like to add it’s not like anyone regularly talks about those things?”

“No offense Aramis, but if someone did some easy lurking, they’d find your favourite flowers out. And how do you even know what shop they’re from!?”

“The ribbon on them, it’s- stop judging me.”

She raised her arms in defence, “I’m not saying anything! Although, gotta add, the cologne is a little on the side of creepy.”

“See!”

“Why don’t you just call this flower shop and ask who bought pink peonies today?”

Aramis nodded and sighed. Clarissa patted him on the arm, “Just keep your office locked for the time being when you’re not in it. I’ll keep an eye out.” “Thanks.” he nodded and closed the door after her.

Man, this was weird.

\---------------------------------------------------------- 

 

“Nope. No luck, she said it was an online order with a dead-end email, it was probably a fake name too.”

D’artagnan tutted as if to say, typical. Aramis scuffed his shoe on the pavement in annoyance.

D’artagnan stopped walking, prompting him to turn and face him.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this. They’ll either give up or give themselves up eventually. At least they’re not leaving you taxidermy squirrels or locks of hair.”

Aramis made an ack! sound causing them both to chuckle.

“Let’s get home then shall we?  I’m fucking starving and it’s been a long day.” Aramis  backed tracked to loop his arm in D’artagnan’s to drag him along. The younger man threw his head in laughter.

“If you cook, then sure.”

~~

Back at the inseperables’ place, D’artagnan shucked his shoes off and made for the sofa after a quick glance that told him Athos wasn’t back yet.

He grinned as Aramis emerged from his room only to flop over the sofa arm to lay face down. They’d both finished their respective days within half an hour of each other, so decided to walk home together.

D’artagnan jumped a little in surprise that he’d referred to their place as ‘home’ so easily. Jeez, D’artagnan, it’s only been a few weeks he thought to himself. But before he could dwell on it more, or over think it, as Constance would put it, the sound of the front door unlocking and Porthos’ booming laughter cut the thought short.

Athos didn’t even take his shoes off before making his way over to D’artagnan with a welcomed kiss.

“That was nice.” D’artagnan smiled up at him dopily, as Athos’ had traced his jawline.

They both turned at the loud cough of a still face-planting Aramis.

“Why is there a dead-body on the settee?” Porthos laughed at the sight, putting his legs up at the dining table.

Aramis’ head whipped to look at them.

“Waiting for the ingredients that I text to you gentlemen.”

Athos rolled his eyes and made his way to the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> :D


End file.
